A Killer Amongst Us

Prologue

Give me two black to go. Detective Joseph Joe Fabrizio called to the waitress behind the counter in a small all-night diner not far from his NYPD precinct. He laid a couple of dollars and some change on the counter and watched a tired over-weight middle aged woman pour coffee from the carafe into a Styrofoam cup. Some guy was banging his cup on the counter, demanding a refill. She looked at him peevishly, spun about and filled his cup, sloshing it over the rim, then retraced her steps to the second Styrofoam cup and started to fill it. At the same time, Joe’s partner, Bart Finley, burst through the door and called, Come on, Joe. We’ve got a 911.

Forgetting the coffee, Joe ran behind Bart to the car.

What’s up? He jumped into the passenger seat slamming the door behind him.

There’s been a killing, Finley said, backing out, changing gears, and taking off with squealing tires and burning rubber.

Hell, man, we’re off duty. Where’s the location? Joe asked, glancing at his partner’s profile, pumping up with adrenaline, as he always did when they headed toward a crime scene.

4230 Millport Street, Bart Finley told him.

Millport Street? You sure? Fabrizio asked, his eyes clouding with misgivings. Hell, that’s my apartment building.

Yeah, I know, man, Bart said, glancing at Joe meekly.

Jesus! Get me there fast, Bart! Joe gasped, his blood heating up and his heart throbbing in his chest so loud it sounded like drumbeats. His teeth pressed together leaving his jaw muscles tense and hard. His hand was against the dash. His outstretched arm supported him as he leaned forward staring through the windshield. Fear grabbed his heart and squeezed like a vice. He felt suspended in a timeless moment, mentally coaxing the car to move faster.

Turning on the siren and the strobe light, Bart pressed his foot on the accelerator and sped dangerously down busy streets, passing anything in the car’s path.

Joe and his partner were the first ones on the scene.

Joe was like a ticking bomb. He jumped from the car while it was still moving and raced to the entryway that led to his ground floor apartment shared with his wife and young daughter.

The iron-grill gate at the entry of the building was locked. He pressed his apartment buzzer, hoping and praying Mary would buzz him in. He could feel his heart pounding as he waited. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He reminded himself that the killing could have occurred in any apartment in the building. It didn’t have to be his apartment.

The gate remained locked. Fear tingled up his spine. He prayed Mary was just asleep and didn’t hear the buzzer.

He snatched a ring of keys from his pocket, his hands shaking so bad he fumbled until he found the right one and shoved it in the lock. The lock clicked open and he rushed inside.

Take it easy, man, Finley said from behind him. The call could have been for any of these apartments.

She didn’t answer the buzzer, Joe replied, not even realizing he had spoken. His mindset was keyed to his apartment and Mary and Susie.

Something was wrong! Joseph Fabrizio sensed it the minute he opened the door.

The sky had darkened out the moon and stars with black ominous clouds threatening a stormy downpour. Loud rumbling thunder rolled across the sky while streaks of lightning slashed the heavens like an angry warrior clearing a path with his sword.

Staggering into the apartment, after capping off the day at his favorite bar with buddies from their NYPD precinct, he had a flickering wish that he’d drunk down the Styrofoam cup of steaming black coffee to clear his head.

A strange feeling persisted.

Nothing appeared any different than it was any other day when he arrived home inebriated after a day of work that ended with a good old boy gathering at the bar. The living room was tidy, everything in its place except a few toys his four year old daughter left on the couch. Yet, he felt it. It was too quiet. Not even a creak or sound stirred anywhere inside or in the apartments on his floor or above.

Guilt, he supposed, knowing how his wife hated his nightly social gatherings with his beer-drinking co-workers.

He passed through the living room to the kitchen, eyes keen on everything now as he studied the interior of his home. His wife was an excellent housekeeper. She took her homemaker job seriously, dusting polishing, decorating, painting the walls when they started to peel, scraping up the glued-down linoleum on the kitchen floor so the two of them could lay vinyl tile in its place. Staying busy was her way of putting meaning into her life by making things nice for her family.

The countertop was clear, not a knife, fork or anything left out of place. He knew the supper he missed was now stored in the refrigerator. He pulled the refrigerator door open, almost reaching for a beer; a habit frequented nightly when he staggered home from the bar where he and his buddies ended each day. At the same time his belly growled to let him know he hadn’t eaten since noon.

Everything looks okay to me, Finley said, traipsing along behind Joe.

Joe barely heard him, intent on the strong feeling consuming him. The eerie sense of another presence having been in his home was palpable, almost as though some unknown person watched him.

A clap of thunder broke the silence and the thought came to him that God was angry—perhaps his wife was too because he’d spent another night drinking and raising hell with his buddies from the precinct instead of coming home to enjoy the dinner she cooked.

He headed back through the living room and down the hallway toward the bedrooms.

He slowly opened his and Mary’s bedroom door an inch at a time, hoping the squeaky hinge wouldn’t wake his wife. A strange odor hit his nostrils.

With fear riding up and down his spine, he touched the light switch. Light flooded the room.

Shock hit Joe’s nervous system like a giant club. Behind him Finley’s breath faltered on the words, Oh my God!

Joe’s knees weakened.

One glance toward the bed and a spell of nausea hit him. He sped to the bathroom, emptying his internal drunk tank into the toilet, heaving until nothing was left. He took a second to splash water on his face, toweling it dry before making a reluctant return back into the bedroom.

He wasn’t new to this sort of crime scene. He had seen it many times before, but at no time had he ever considered it might one day be his own wife lying in the gore of violently imposed death.

Blood and tissue saturated the bed where she lay. It was scattered on the bed linens, the headboard and on the wall behind the bed.

His wife’s face was gone, it now perforated with buckshot from a shotgun—likely a sawed-off one easier to carry and hide.

Standing there unable to move, unable to think, he couldn’t do anything except gaze down at his dead wife.

Pressure boiled up in his chest, moving up to his throat, erupting into a horrified Noooooooooooo without sound as he stared in frozen shock.

Sirens in the distance edged closer and grew louder.

He had no idea how long he stood there before life started slowly seeping back into his body and mind. Voices from the hallway entered his thoughts, and he knew other police personnel were now on the scene.

He vaguely remembered Finley grabbing him by the arm at some point, and trying to steer him from his wife’s death room. He refused and Finley went out to meet other law enforcement officers who showed up.

He became aware of the smell of blood that was so strong it gagged him again and he rushed to the bathroom only to heave drily over the toilet bowl. Rushing back to the bed now, he wanted another moment with his wife before his house became a bedlam of activity with dozens of police personnel tromping through it. He gazed at Mary’s violated body that looked like a riddled and frayed practice target at a firing range. She had thrown her left hand in front of her face at the last moment before the shotgun trigger was pulled and it was a bloody pulp on a stump.

He spotted something shiny on the inside of the bed frame between it and the mattress. Bending for a better look, he saw a small medallion lodged there. He grabbed a little ring box off the dresser and lifting the medallion by its broken chain, placed it in the box. He studied it, knowing it hadn’t belonged to Mary. On the front was a strange insignia containing a cross with two swords diagonally crisscrossed over it, and on the backside were the initials K.G.

He closed the jewelry box and pocketed it.

Standing over his wife in a silent moment of remembering all they had shared, tears filled his eyes before grief digressed to boiling anger at the animal who took her life.

Heat throbbed in his temples and rage rose like mercury in a thermometer.

In a hoarse voice desperate with promise, he cried out, I’m going to get him, Mary. I’m going to get the sorry son of a bitch that did this and I won’t let anyone stand in my way. I’ll get him. I promise you.

The voices, now congregated just outside the bedroom door, brought him out of his deep concentration. Then it struck him. Susie. His little four year old girl. His heart raced and pounded like a drum as he raced sightlessly past the men at the door and up the hallway to Susie’s room. A frightening image formed in his mind of what he was apt to find.

Chapter 1

A year and a half later

He was sitting back there again in the darkened area beneath the balcony like a shadow figure that came and went at will without any inclination to become acquainted with anyone. He slipped through the door each time, purposely showing up after the choir members assembled, easing into the seat he favored; at first, once a week, finally graduating to twice a week after learning the days that choir practice was held.

Amanda Renee Larson couldn’t help being curious. Who was he? She wondered. Why was he so mysterious, always leaving the church as unobtrusively as he did when he entered. His presence seemed innocent enough, probably someone who enjoyed listening to the hymnals; however, a couple of the choir members admitted he made them feel uneasy.

She kept glancing toward the back pews where the lights were purposely left turned off to save electricity. He had to be aware of her curiosity unless he was sleeping. It occurred to her that maybe he was just some bum who scooted inside the church under the pretext of listening to the music while napping in a peaceful setting; but that was before she got a glimpse at his attire one day when he slipped inside the door.

The hour long practice moved along quickly, ending with the choir members standing in preparation to leave. You guys did great, Amanda praised and was acknowledged by a few mumbled responses as they headed up the aisle to the exit. I’ll see you all on Sunday, she called.

Little short, gray-haired Mrs. Ellerbee stayed behind. Stepping up to Amanda, she whispered, Amanda, that man is still back there. He didn’t leave today before everyone else did like he usually does. You want me to stay here with you?

Amanda glanced toward the back pew where the shadow figure looked a bit daunting. She turned back to Mrs. Ellerbee. No, you go on. I’m sure he’s just some harmless visitor who likes to listen to the music. She certainly hoped that was the case.

Well, do be careful, Mrs. Ellerbee warned in a doubtful tone.

Amanda smiled and watched her leave, all the while wondering if this would be the day the stranger would make himself known.

She started gathering up her music when suddenly a fit of coughing from the back pew rang through the church. Raising her hand above her eyes to filter the overhead glare, she peered toward the sound. She could feel his eyes returning her gaze.

Hello there, are you okay? she called, her long strands of auburn hair dancing a bit wildly on her shoulders as she bent forward to peer from hand shielded eyes.

Joe cleared his throat. Yeah, I’m fine, he replied, and erupted into another wave of coughing.

You don’t sound fine, she chuckled, and sat down at the piano to gather up her music.

It’s just an allergy, he informed, rising and walking toward Amanda.

She stopped what she was doing, watching his slow, lazy stroll down the aisle toward her.

Her glance raced over him, coming back to his face. Sudden interest ignited inside her for a man she knew nothing about. Her sudden shortness of breath signaled body chemistry at work.

His dark Italian features and handsome face grabbed Amanda’s attention immediately. She studied him a moment, pausing when she met his gold-flecked green eyes. He certainly wasn’t some bum off the street, she surmised with amusement. The long-sleeved white shirt and tie he wore with a dark blue suit indicated professionalism.

Tall, slender but masculine, his physical appearance held no apparent flaws that would detract from his handsomeness. Everything about him was wrought like a fine, carved statue of excellence. Only his eyes betrayed the easy-going grace he exhibited. They held a dull, woebegone gaze that made Amanda wonder what dire disappointments he must have suffered

Hi, he said, coming up so close to her she smelled a waft of shaving lotion. He stuck out his hand and Amanda offered hers, the texture and warmth of his hand sending pleasant feelings up her arm.

I’m Detective Joseph Fabrizio, Joe for short. I thought it was time we became acquainted since I’ve enjoyed your music the past several weeks. He made eye contact as he talked, wavering only enough so he could study her beautiful face.

Yes, well I’ve wondered about you. A couple of my choir members feared you might be some sort of bogey man come to harm us, she smiled.

He chuckled. "As a matter of fact, it’s just the opposite. I work for the local police department to protect and serve, he emphasized with a smile. Sorry, if I made anyone anxious."

No problem. I’m Amanda Larson. He was still holding her hand and she gave a tiny squeeze then tugged gently to release his hold. I know many of the folks here in Barnston. Are you a newcomer?

I’ve been in Barnston about five or six months, coming here from New York City. Joe couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was captivating. Her head of auburn hair resembled the shade of pulled taffy where overhead lights shone on it. Her complexion was creamy, smooth and silky, not a blemish anywhere. Underneath her loose-fitting clothing was a gorgeous figure made to be held by a man. You’re good at what you do, he added, nodding toward the piano.

Amanda met his green eyes. Thank you, I suppose I’m right at home playing the piano. I’ve had lots of practice. Do you play?

He chuckled. Not hardly, but I’ve always loved piano music.

He devoured her soft shapely lips with his eyes. From the back of the church he had decided she was attractive and appealing, but up close she was more than that; she was beautiful, warm and friendly. The scent of her perfume floated past Joe’s nostrils and he took a deep breath, it making him dizzy with remembered longing that had been absent ever since his wife, Mary, was murdered.

How did you happen to become an audience of one at my choir practices? she asked with amusement.

The rain sent me here.

I beg your pardon.

He chuckled. I happened to be walking by the church one day—I love to walk—and make it a daily habit, by the way—and was caught in a heavy downpour. I scooted inside the church to outwait the rain. You were playing the piano and your choir group was singing There Shall Be Showers of Blessings".

Amanda laughed. Well the song title certainly suited the weather.

It did and indeed it was a shower of blessings when I heard the wonderful hymnals you were playing. That’s why I kept coming back. I hope you don’t mind.

Of course I don’t mind. You’re welcome anytime. She stepped back up to the piano to retrieve her folder of music and her purse. Will I be seeing you again, Joe?

You can count on it, Mandy? he replied, smiling through white teeth that glowed behind an olive complexion.

She grinned and blushed at the nickname he gave her. Well, its nice meeting you, she said, holding out her hand.

The pleasure is all mine, Joe replied, enjoying the feel of her long gifted fingers. He had a sudden crazy longing to pull her into his arms and experience the closeness of that gorgeous body pressed snugly against him. Her light-textured perfume was an aphrodisiac to his starved emotions for female companionship. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed intimacy with a woman.

Their eyes met again and something subtle and illusive passed between them. Amanda’s heart fluttered excitedly. She didn’t know Joe Fabrizio, but some inner sense told her she was going to know him.

It took him two weeks to ask her out for coffee. During those two weeks he didn’t miss a single choir practice; neither did he fail to spend a few minutes with her after the choir members left. They talked about inconsequential things, becoming more relaxed with each other and finding more things to talk about—all except personal subjects.

Then one day he invited her to meet him at a little restaurant he was fond of visiting because they had good steaming coffee and an array of pastries he seldom could resist. He frequently reminded himself he would have to give them up if he started growing a potbelly like some of the other policemen did.

He was waiting for Amanda in the parking lot of Seasons Restaurant when Amanda drove up. This being the first time they had been together outside the church, they were slightly shy of conversation until they sat in a booth with steaming cups of coffee and praised its aromatic scent and taste. The restaurant’s atmosphere was informal and friendly. Genially they started sharing tidbits from their lives until conversation was as spontaneous as if they had known each other forever—except it was Amanda doing most of the talking. She must have told him every detail of her life, of how she had grown up in the church because her father was the minister, and how she had hoped to become a concert pianist until her mother’s accident. She had no secrets and even discussed the reason why she wasn’t married when Joe outright questioned her about it.

All the eligible bachelors tend to relocate downstate to New York City to embark on careers, she said with grim amusement in her smile. I suppose I would have done the same, except Mom’s car accident crippled her and I decided she was more important than my becoming a concert pianist. I made the choice to remain at home with her. I’m afraid there aren’t too many marriageable men left in Barnston.

Joe touched her ring finger, finally gathering her hand in his palm. That was an honorable thing to do for your mother. Do you think you’ll ever marry?

The question caused Amanda to blush. If I meet the right man, I will, she said shyly with downcast eyes.

A silent pause intervened just before she laughed and declared, You’ve heard my whole life history. Now, let’s hear yours.

He suddenly turned thoughtful, seeming reluctant to talk about himself. There’s not much to tell, he said evasively.

Oh, I don’t believe that. It’s a cop-out—no pun intended. What about your family, your job, where you’re from? She wanted to know everything there was to know about him. She found him interesting and appealing and would like nothing better than for a mutual attraction to take root and expand between them into something long-term.

I was born in New York City, raised by my mother after my father died and… He stopped talking when someone dropped a coin in the jukebox and an old song he hadn’t heard in years started playing.

Is something wrong? Amanda asked, seeing him ease into an introverted expression while the pleasing and harmonious lyrics from the jukebox resounded across the restaurant. That music reminds me of my father, he replied thoughtfully. The song was one of his favorites. When I was a kid we always went to this Italian restaurant in New York City to eat. Nearly every time we were there Dad gave me a quarter, telling me to go play number 26 on the jukebox. I never heard him mention the name of the song—just number 26, but later I learned it was called Granada. I had no idea what my father’s business was until years later some of his associates were gunned down in that same restaurant where we ate.

Amanda tried not to show surprise, but she must have anyway.

Am I shocking you? he suddenly asked.

No, it’s more like surprise and curiosity instead of shock. I read such things in the newspapers and see it on television news; however...

However, you’ve never known anyone who is closely related to such violence, he finished for her.

No, I haven’t, but that doesn’t prevent me from wanting to hear about it if it’s part of who you are.

He studied her face. Her statement, ‘part of who you are’, touched him profoundly. Every experience he’d ever had was a little slice of knowledge and feeling embedded into his humanity to form what he had become. His father’s murder was the turning point in putting a stamp on his future, he thought now as he slipped back into his story.

The killings of my father’s associates were splashed all over the front page of the newspaper the next day. Dad went crazy with fear that he would be next on someone’s hit list. It took me a while to understand why he was so frightened. I kept hearing the names mob and mobster on the news, finally learning from my older brother Vince that my father belonged to the mob. I was too young to even know what the term mob meant until Mom filled me in. ‘It’s a violent organization with interest in everything outside the law,’ she told me bitterly. I started reading the newspapers after that to learn more about it.

Considering you’re in law enforcement, it must not have affected your life much. Amanda’s crystal blue eyes bore into his green ones, totally involved in his story.

Actually, it was what turned me to law enforcement. He paused a moment. Amanda, my life has a few gory details that might not set well with you, he warned, thinking she might be too delicate to listen to such violent events that had caused him to grow up too fast.

I don’t need pampering, Joe. I’m pretty opened minded, she informed him. Please tell me what happened to your father? she coaxed.

He had no idea why he was opening up his life to her. Maybe it was because he hadn’t had anyone he could do that with since Mary’s death. Every friend he knew from the NYPD where he previously worked suggested counseling, but he refused to bare his life story to a stranger whose cold professionalism repelled him. He had bottled it up all this time. Suddenly he wanted to talk about it. Are you sure? This can get pretty graphic?

I’m perfectly sure. If I’m ever to know you, then you have to stop trying to spare me.

He reached across the table and cupped one of her hands in his. Looking deeply into Amanda’s blue eyes, he asked, Do you love your father, Mandy? Are you proud of him?

She looked puzzled. My answer is yes to both questions, but I don’t see...

"I was ashamed of what my father did for a living. I didn’t want to be associated with him or his name. That feeling was more prominent after what he did to my mother. I remember him taking up with a beauty queen young enough to be his daughter. I hated him after seeing the pain in my mother’s eyes. Then he put her up in an apartment with me and my brother Vince and forgot about us. I was so angry and bitter I refused to see dad again. Vince wasn’t fazed at all by our parents’ separation. He loved the old man and looked up to him, his mind already fixed on following in his footsteps. I hated him. When mom went to his funeral, I refused to go.

Mom assumed her maiden name and gave it to me to disassociate me from dad’s affiliation with the mob. Vince, however, wouldn’t hear of a name change for himself, and spent every chance he could with dad, finally moving in with him following graduation from high school. By then the beauty queen was long gone and another young beauty had taken her place. Dad caught Vince in bed with the last one, which nearly got him thrown out of dad’s apartment along with his young consort.

He paused to see how such a graphic description affected Amanda. She was a cool one. There wasn’t a single hint on her face that such images bothered her.

She planted her alert blue eyes on his face, expectantly waiting for him to continue.

One evening, my father, the powerful Nicholas Genovese, was coming out of the Italian restaurant, where he and his associates hung out, with me, Vince and Mom. A bullet from a high-powered rifle tore through his chest. He fell in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. Unconsciously, he still held her hand, becoming aware when she laid her other hand on top of his.

I’m so sorry, Joe. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you and your brother. She withdrew her hands and sipped from her coffee cup.

"His death left its after-effects on me and Vince. Vince couldn’t let go of the old life he’d known with dad so he joined the mob. I took a long hard look at the justice system when dad’s killers were never apprehended and decided to become a cop. In some ways, I felt I was making up for all the terrible things my old man had done.

Things were good after that. I married Mary, a girl I’d known in high school. We had our little girl named Susie and set out to live the American dream. I was promoted to homicide detective and life couldn’t have been better. Then I was assigned to investigating the Rodman/Griffin case; a couple of hoods working an illegal gambling racket who took a professional hit for stealing cuts off the profits. When I started getting too close to the perpetrator somebody put a hit out on me. They killed my wife instead.

Now, Amanda’s face did show emotion. She shook her head. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came out.

Joe took a deep breath, remembering. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, he said with an introverted expression. Nothing in all my experiences can measure up to the shock, pain and despair Mary’s death brought me. Everything started falling apart. I became a disgusting drunk and my life became a nightmare after that. What I went through is something I never want to go through again.

Now Amanda knew why he had that dull, woebegone look in his eyes. He was still in mourning—or worse, drowning in guilt.

My alcohol addiction is a daily struggle. There are times when I want a drink so bad it’s all I can do to avoid driving to the nearest liquor store for a bottle. That’s why I walk every day. I’m on the night shift at work, so every afternoon, the off-duty hours I once spent in barrooms when I was in New York City, I now spend walking.

You’ve had some tough experiences that might have unraveled most men. I admire you for setting new directions in your life.

Joe touched her hand again, thoughtfully toying with it, running a finger around the edge of her long nails.

He had definitely set new directions and he didn’t want to screw up this time. Finding the job with the Barnston Police Department not only had been a new beginning, it was a lifesaver considering the cloud he’d left behind that had brought about his suspension in the city.

He didn’t want to disappoint his mother anymore either, or his little daughter who had said, Daddy, I don’t like you when you drink whiskey.

Since the day when he’d finally introduced himself to Amanda, he had fought internal battles against forming a relationship with her; friendly or otherwise. He had made a promise to Mary, vowing to put his life on hold until he fulfilled that promise. Yet, after seeing Mandy on the days when he stopped by her church to listen to the choir practice, he had hungered for her company like a starving man. Just touching her hand while they talked made him yearn for more. He wanted to hold her, kiss her, test her passions against his own. When he had invited her to have coffee with him, he tried to convince himself it was only this once.

When they parted, however, he knew he would see her again. Something about her added dimensions to his existence.

Chapter 2

Joe kissed her!

It had only been a tiny peck on her cheek before she got in her car, but still it was a kiss and it left Amanda walking on air. Her attraction for Joe had been set during their sessions spent together following choir practice the past couple of weeks, but the kiss brought about a new feeling that had been threatening to emerge. She didn’t know enough about love between men and women to call it love. But whatever it was, it sure felt good.

The feeling persisted that evening after Amanda arrived home and prepared dinner. She relived everything he had told her, and the pain he had suffered only enhanced her respect for him. She set the dinner table for her mother, father and self. Myra, who stayed with Amanda’s paraplegic mother when Amanda wasn’t there, left soon after Amanda arrived home.

Amanda didn’t mention Joe to her mother, wanting to keep their meeting private as long as she could to harbor the special feelings swelling in her chest. Her mind was filled with him as she worked in the kitchen over dinner, a big pot of soup made earlier in the day. Amanda’s mother sat at the dining table in her wheelchair.

Amanda looked at the clock, and then turned the burner low beneath the soup pot. Her father was usually on time, within a thirty minute frame unless he called. Since she had not heard from him, he should be coming home shortly.

True to habit, she heard the front door open and close. She also heard her father’s voice speaking to