by Daniel Olarnick
(Author's Note: This fictionalized story is based on a
true event. As you read it, that fact will disturb you.
You would be better off believing that it never happened.)
(The names, identities and landmarks have all been changed
to protect the innocent, and, of course, the dead.)
*
(Circa September 1965)
The phone rang jolting me out of a deep sleep. I picked
up the receiver, knowing instinctively it would be Michael
McCarthy, the one-eyed ex-policeman now assigned to the
District Attorney's Office as the desk night officer.
"Hey, 'Fingers' you got to go relieve Gillery. His
wife is having her labor pains."
"Shit," I mumbled, "I hate backing up that
guy. There's always something."
"Well, you got a good one at the 7-0 tonight. Old
Homicide. Rocky is on the way. He's picking up ADA Postal
and then you."
"Thanks, Mike. I'll be ready."
I climbed out of bed, stretched my body, and headed towards
the bathroom, started the shower and climbed in. Never could
start a day's (or night's) work without a shower and shave,
even at 2:30 a.m. The shower worked its magic waking up
both my mind and body. I toweled myself off, shaved, glanced
at the clock, and figured I had enough time to make myself
a cup of instant coffee, which I did.
I opened up my American Tourister carrying case, checked
to make sure that I had two pads of steno paper, closed
it up, sipped the coffee, heard the downstairs buzzer ring
and shouted into the intercom, without waiting to hear who
it was, "Coming down, Rocky. Want a cup of coffee?"
"Nah, Dan. I'll get one at the precinct."
"Be right down."
*
"Hi, Rocky. Hi Paul," I greeted them cheerfully
with a wave of my hand, as I opened the rear door of the
black '64 Cadillac limousine and seated myself in the back.
Rocky Valone, our driver, had been a highly decorated naval
gunner during World War II. However, it was his stateside
patronage to the local Democratic club that had gotten him
his contract with the D.A.'s Homicide Investigation Squad
to transport the assistant district attorneys and their
shorthand reporters to the numerous police precincts located
in Brooklyn, or to the scenes of homicide investigation.
Rocky did his job well and liked what he was doing. His
limousine was well cared for both inside and out, making
it a pleasure to ride in, unlike a few of the other limousine
drivers, who didn't give a damn about their job, their appearance,
or the condition of their limousines.
Rocky knew every shortcut in Brooklyn to get to wherever
it was that our homicide team needed to go to, to take our
statements, and then to get us home safe and sound and as
quickly as possible.
Assistant District Attorney Paul Postal was a man in is
early 60s, a thorough investigator. He took a concise statement
from the various perpetrators and witnesses, guiding them
with leading questions that got to the heart of the matter.
I had been on over 25 homicide investigations with him.
We made a good team.
Rocky fastened the red flashing dome-light to the top of
the Caddy. He turned on the radio to his favorite Italian
station. Frank Sinatra's voice filled the car with its soft,
sweet and easy music as we sped away from my apartment building
on 17th Street and Cortelyou Road to the 70th Precinct.
"It's going to be an interesting night, kid,"
said Paul. "You know the routine. I'll advise him of
his rights, sit back and let him talk. It's an old homicide.
The detectives in the precinct think they've got the suspect
dead-to-rights."
"Who's the detective?" I asked,
"Randazo," said the ADA.
I smiled, knowing it was going to be a long night. Detective
Randazo was an old-time detective with a reputation for
getting a confession out of a perpetrator that usually held
up when brought to trial. He was an intimidating presence,
tall, dark-haired, V-shaped and angry. Once he got a lead,
he never let up until he was able to close his case.
"He's worked on this case for close to a year. Remember
the girl we found in Brighton Beach, Victoria Masters?"
ask ADA Postal.
"How can I forget?" I answered, a shudder running
through my body, as I recalled the once very attractive
blonde high-school graduate who had been skinned alive.
"Well, Randazo thinks he's got the killer dead to
rights. Caught him at the home of the parents."
*
John O'Connor's life was about to change forever.
He pulled his car over to a darkened side street, just
outside of the Gravesend Neck Road Cemetery. He had drank
a few too many beers and needed to relieve himself urgently.
He steered his '60 black Oldsmobile over to the iron fencing,
which separated the graveyard from the street, got out,
leaving the door open to block his body from any oncoming
traffic that might be coming down the street at 1:00 in
the morning. He glanced around, nervously -- having once
been ticketed and fined for public urination before -- but
"Nature" was calling and he had no choice.
John was thankful that it was late in the evening; that
there were no pedestrians walking along the cemetery path,
or cars coming from either direction, as he felt partially
ashamed and strangely frustrated to be forced to urinate
on holy ground.
It seemed to take him forever to finish. "I've got
to remember to go to the 'head' before I leave O'Heally's
next time," he swore to himself under his breath. His
urine stream seemed to be endless.
"Can you help me, please," said a female voice
that appeared to come out of the darkness.
John O'Connor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand
up and a flush of embarrassment course throughout his body.
*
It was about 4:15 a.m. when Rocky pulled up to the 70th
Precinct. Paul Postal and I got out of the car in unison,
walked up the stairs to the station house, and nodded to
the desk officer.
"Randazo's upstairs," said the sergeant at the
desk, waving us in.
We climbed the up the stairs to the detective's office.
The stench of the locked up prisoners filled the air with
their scent. It was not a pleasant place to be and the smells
of the lockup matched the foreboding dark and dank structure.
*
I snapped the locks open on my carrying case, lifted out
the tripod, popped its legs open with a bit of a flourish,
as I twirled it around and placed it on the ground. Then
I lifted my Stenographic writer out, attached it to the
tripod, tore open a pack of stenographic paper, tested the
machine and waited for Paul Postal to give me the nod to
start the statement.
*
Detective Randazo finished speaking to the ADA and left
the room to get the perpetrator.
"As soon as he comes in, we'll get the pedigree and
start the statement. Ready, Dan?"
"Always ready," I smiled. I loved this job, loved
being a shorthand reporter, and was proud of my verbatim
high-speed shorthand skills.
*
John O'Connor entered the room. I looked up and noted that
he had some bruises on his face. I knew Randazo was not
beyond extracting a confession from a reluctant suspect,
but he was usually far more careful than bruising a man's
face. I shook my head but understood how the system worked
and resigned myself to the fact that the suspect probably
deserved a bit of a beating. The homicide had been horrific.
"I'm Assistant District Attorney Paul Postal. We're
here to investigate a homicide that occurred on June 20,
1964. This man will be writing down whatever you have to
say. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say
may be used against you." ADA Postal read the defendant
his Miranda rights. John O'Connor kept mumbling "yes"
after each sentence.
"So, John, tell me what happened on June 20th."
"I don't know what you guys are talking about. How
the hell am I supposed to remember what happened on June
20th of '64?"
"All right, John," said ADA Postal, "why
don't you tell me what happened tonight. What led to your
arrest?"
*
"Can you help me, please," said the blonde girl
who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. She was standing
at the front of the Olds, as John O'Connor zipped up his
fly, thankful for the fact that the street was dark. He
was sure she knew what he was doing, but she remained standing
at the front of the car, her body outlined by the Oldsmobile's
headlights.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled, embarrassed by his position.
"What are you doing out here," he asked.
"I'm lost." She said.
She was dressed in a white evening gown. It was obvious
she had been crying. He had imagined that she had been making-out
with her boyfriend, on one of those dead-end streets that
surrounded the cemetery, and that "things" had
gotten out-of-hand. That was the image that suddenly came
to his mind. He didn't know why that thought had flashed
into his mind.
"Can you take me home," she asked. Her eyes were
puffy and wet.
John O'Connor looked around, half suspecting someone would
come up behind him or come looking for the girl, apologizing
for his actions. But there was nobody around.
"Sure," he said, as he walked to the front of
the car and escorted her to the passenger's side of the
car. He reached forward to take her hand and found it cold
to the touch. "It's a bitter night, for October, isn't
it?" he asked, as he opened up the front door.
She shuddered. A chill, obviously, raced through her body.
She got into the car. John caught a glimpse of her long
legs, as she pulled up her skirt slightly, to slide into
the car. "Thank you," she said. Her voice had
a slight tremble to it.
John went around to the driver's side, walking behind the
back of his car, quickly checking his fly to make sure he
was fully zipped up. He climbed into the car, looked at
her profile, and smiled at his luck. She was a real beauty.
"Hi. I'm John, John O'Connor," he said, remembering
that he had not introduced himself when he had first seen
her.
"Victoria Masters," she said, her smile was inviting.
"You're not going to be bad, are you," she asked,
"I've had enough of that for tonight." She sniffled
a bit.
"No, no problem with me. You all right?" he asked.
"My date - he got a bit rough with me. I had to leave,"
she said.
"Sorry," replied John, not knowing what else
to say. God was she attractive.
"We were making out and -" her voice trailed
off.
"No problem," said John. "Where do you want
me to take you?"
"Could we wait here for awhile? I need to warm up.
I have this chill -"
"Sure," he said, as he reached forward to switch
on the heater. "There. It'll heat up in a few minutes."
"Thanks," she said and smiled at him. She opened
up her bag, took out an embroidered handkerchief and dabbed
her eyes with it.
John liked her, liked her a lot, even though he had only
met her a few minutes ago. She was exceptionally pretty,
he thought. "God, what a great body she's got,"
he thought to himself. "I wouldn't mind…"
"I had a fight with my boyfriend last week,"
she said, "so I went to my graduation by myself. Then
one of the teachers offered to give me a ride home. He got
very fresh … you know."
"Jesus," he said, "some guys,"
"My mom said this dress was too revealing for a girl
built like me. I should have listened, I guess."
John looked at her, somehow, for the first time, he noticed
her cleavage, and the fullness of her body, how clinging
her dress was.
"You're very pretty. Doesn't give a guy the right
to - you know."
"Thank you. Thank you for being so very understanding,"
she said, and reached over and touched his face. Her touch
was very, very cold. John jumped back at the coldness of
her touch.
"Sorry," she said. "I've got this awful
chill."
John reached forward and turned up the heater to high.
"There, that will help."
"Could you give me your jacket," she asked, "just
to take the chill away."
"Sure, no problem -"
"-Victoria. You can call me Vickie," she added.
He took his leather jacket off, handed it to her, watched
her wrap it around herself.
"Is that better," he asked.
"Still got this chill," she said. "Could
you hold me around - but no funny business," she said.
Her voice was sweet and sincere.
John slid over to her side, placing his arm around her
shoulders, hugging her, trying not to get aroused, but found
himself fighting a losing battle.
She reached over, turned the radio on, "This is the
Big Bopper down at Plumb Beach," said the radio deejay,
"and this is Johnny Mathis, for all you young lovers.
And this is Misty."
The song began to reverberate through the car:
"Look at me. I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree.
"And I feel like I'm clinging to a cloud
"I can't understand
"I get misty just holding your hand
"Walk my way, and a thousand violins being to play
"Or it might be the sound of your hello
"That music I hear
"I get misty the moment you're near."
John O'Connor could not believe his good fortune, "Vickie,"
he whispered over and over.
Her lips were cold, as was her touch, but he had more than
enough heat for both of them.
She kissed him deeply. His hands fondled her body. Soft
moans escaped from her as her bosom heaved up and down with
passion and excitement.
"No, no," she said, "You have to stop,"
passion filled her voice.
"Please," he said, moaning a bit, grabbing her
hand, and edging it towards his lap.
"Be good," she pleaded. "Wait," she
said. She arched her body under his jacket, making a suggestive
movement. She reached down, opened up her purse, and extracted
her handkerchief once again. Her hand moved up and down,
engulfing him, relieving and exhausting him at the same
time.
"Good God," he gasped.
"Just hold me," she said, her breathing heavy.
Sweat was pouring out from his body because of the heat
in the car, and still she felt cold to his touch.
"You'll take me home now? Please." She seemed
to whine, her voice filling with sobs.
"Sure, sure. Take it easy. No problem."
"You're satisfied now, aren't you? Please don't tell
anybody. I'm a good girl."
"Hey, don't worry. I'm cool," said John, exhausted
and exhilarated.
*
"So, John, then what happened?" questioned ADA
Postal?
"I drove her home, to Marine Parkway and Hamilton
Road. She asked me to leave her on the corner. I did. I
asked her for her phone number. She said, no. I asked if
I could see her again. She said, maybe. She got out of the
car. I watched her walk up the block and enter the house.
I started to leave, and noticed her handbag. I drove up
to the front of the house, got out, rang the bell. I knew
it was late, but I had her bag.
"And then what happened?"
"A man came to the door. He asked me what I wanted.
I told him that I had his daughter's bag - I figured it
was his daughter - and he fucking attacked me - screaming
and yelling. Calling me a murderer."
"I show you this bag. I'll ask the reporter to mark
it as People's Exhibit 1." Paul Postal handed me the
bag, I marked it with my exhibit sticker and handed it to
the defendant.
"John, is this the bag that you found in your car?"
"Yeah, that's it."
Paul Postal handed the bag to John O'Connor. "John,
we have a problem here. This bag has been missing since
the time of the homicide of Victoria Masters. It has a pair
of bloody panties wrapped within a handkerchief in it. How
did you come into its possession?"
"I told you. She left it in the car. You ain't saying
that I killed this chick, are you?"
"Well, John, as a matter of fact -"
"Fuck you, man. I ain't saying nothing else until
I speak to an attorney."
"Like I told you, John, if you want an attorney, one
will be supplied to you free of charge."
"Yeah, I want a lawyer. You guys are crazy. I'm telling
you, she was in my car tonight. I kissed her. I made out
with her. She gave me a hand job -"
"If you come clean, John, and tell us the truth, you'll
feel better about yourself. Now where were you last year-"
"I was in fucking Vietnam!" John O'Connor screamed.
"Close the statement," said ADA Postal.
*
Rocky drove us down to Junior's restaurant later that day
for an early breakfast. We filled Rocky in on what had happened.
"So, what do you think, Dan?" ask Paul.
"You've got me. I'm dumbfounded. So, what do you think
really happened, Paul?"
Paul Postal shrugged his shoulders and said, "Disembodied
soul, perhaps, Dan. Who knows."
*
Epilogue: October 31, 1965, John O'Connor's car was found,
parked by the cemetery, abandoned, with its motor running.
His whereabouts are still unknown.
Victoria Master's murder has never been solved.
In the archives of the District Attorney's Office, my original
stenographic notes are filed and sealed. Across the seal
I wrote the words "Ghost Story." No other explanation
is possible.
Do you want my opinion, Dear Reader?
No?
I'll give it to you anyhow: John O'Connor was destined
to meet Victoria Masters. Somehow he found a way to join
her - forever!
Illustration by Dan Mills. Click
to enlarge.
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