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                                                                                                    Hope you enjoy this short murder mystery

AXE ME NO QUESTIONS

Part One

      The body of a black male was lying on its back on a futon in the small den of a three-bedroom home in the community of Baldwin, Nassau County, NY. A square throw pillow covered his chest area, and a second covered his waist and upper thigh area. An old wooden milk crate had been placed in the doorway as if to block the entrance to the room. The three of us – lead Homicide Detective Matt Devlin, Crime Scene Search Unit officer-in-training Richard Gianelli, and me, Detective Jack Barrett, lead CSSU investigator –stared at the body in disbelief. He was obviously killed by numerous strikes with an axe, and we stood in silence for a few moments, shaking our heads as our minds absorbed this horrific scene of murder. Devlin raised his eyes to me and said, "Jackie, what the hell?”

“My educated guess is twenty-seven whacks,” I said.

Gianelli, new to CSSU but with many years of street experience, said, "Not being disrespectful to the deceased, but he looks like he was in an axe fight, and everybody had an axe but him."

Devlin nodded and said, “Why do you think twenty-seven whacks?”

“There were two other axe murders in our county earlier this year,” I replied, “and I was unfortunately working on both of those days and caught both cases. The first one, in January, a young man killed his mother with a Boy Scout axe. Hit her twenty-six times. The second one, in May, a boarder killed his eighty-four-year-old landlord with a hatchet, whacking him twenty-eight times."

“So right in the middle?” Rich asked.

“The M.E. will tell us for certain,” I said. “Maybe an axe murderer’s arm gets tired after twenty-five or so swings.”

“Speaking of the M.E.,” Matt Devlin said, “I believe he has arrived.”

Chomping on a half-eaten unlit cigar, Deputy Medical Examiner Howard Milstein stepped over the milk crate, took a look at the body, and exclaimed, "What the fuck?"

“Our thoughts exactly,” I said. “This is my third axe murder so far this year, and your second, I believe.”

“Yeah, Jack, I remember that one in the winter.”

“We’re looking for a time of death, Doc, and whatever you can tell us about the type of weapon used,” Devlin said.

“Duh, an axe, I presume.”

“Yeah, but we found no weapon so far,” Devlin replied. “So size, weight – anything – would be helpful.”

“And an exact count of the axe strikes when you post him,” I said.

“What? You guys got a pool going?”

“Sort of,” I said, grinning at him.

“Has this whole scene here been photographed and dusted for prints?” he asked.

“All done,” Devlin said.

“He wasn’t killed here, you know.”

“Duh, there’s about a gallon of blood and sprays and droplets all over the walls of the rec room in the basement,” I said.

Milstein gave me a sour look, removed the cushions from the body, and we all noticed the clasped hands across the stomach.

“Just like they do in a funeral parlor,” Gianelli whispered.

Doc Milstein examined the body and inserted thermometers under an armpit and into the rectum. While he waited, he took out a tape measure and said to me, "Hold this by his head," as he stretched the tape to the corpse’s toes.

"Six feet, two inches," he proclaimed. "Male, black, muscular physique, apparent cause of death by trauma due to multiple axe strikes." He pulled out the two thermometers and recorded the temperatures in his notebook. "Time of death – 2:00 p.m., give or take fifteen minutes.”

I glanced at my watch. It was 4:07 on a sunny Saturday afternoon in September. Somebody had to have seen whoever did this come in and/or leave the house.

“Oh, and a woman did it,” he added.

“Gimme a break, Doc,” Devlin said. “Tell us, Sherlock Holmes, how the hell did you figure that out?”

“The clasped hands, the throw pillows attempting to hide the body, and what was done to it. The milk crate blocking entry, the many hits to the genital area, all point to things a woman would do, and never a man.”

“Well, Doc,” I said, “I agree that a woman may certainly have done all those things, but not the actual murder itself. The perps in my other two axe murders were men – strong men. No woman I know has the arm strength to whack a guy twenty-seven times. A man did this murder.”

“Is twenty-seven whacks your guess in the pool?” he asked, smirking at me. “Let’s see if you are correct, shall we?”

We all turned our attention to the body, which we now had identified as William Latham from the driver’s license in the wallet Doc Milstein had removed from his rear pants pocket, and tried counting the wounds. Latham was neatly dressed in gray slacks, a collared white golf shirt, with a burgundy sweater over it. The sweater made counting the wounds difficult with the blood soaked in over almost its entire surface. Milstein said, "Looks like eight to the head and face and a dozen or so to the chest area – and those several below the waist.”

“Let’s go downstairs to the basement rec room,” Devlin said, “and then we’ll all have a discussion.”

As we walked down the narrow staircase to the basement, I said, "And no woman carried that 6'2", probably 190-pound guy, up these stairs, my good doctor."

“Maybe there were two women, wiseguy,” he said.

I just shook my head and saved my comments on that for later. The rec room was about ten by fourteen feet with a floor of polished light-yellow tiles. Four-foot-high knotty pine walls surrounded the entire room, except for a door opening to a closet under which a puddle of blood had disappeared. The coppery scent of fresh blood permeated the air. As we glanced around the macabre scene, Doc Milstein once again asked if this area had been photographed. Matt Devlin responded in the affirmative and then said to me, "What do you think, my crime scene expert?"

“None of the blood spattering is higher than the pine walls,” I said, “ and not a drop on the painted sheetrock above them or on the ceiling. And it’s all confined to this one wall and the floor.”

“Which means?”

"I believe the attacker and Latham were face to face, and he got the first blow directly into his forehead, causing him to fall to the floor. Then the killer proceeded to axe him to death until his arm got tired.”

“Just one guy?”

“No, two at least to get him up the stairs, but one killer.”

“Or two women who took equal turns hitting Mr. Latham,” Doc Milstein said.

“Doc, two women could never have gotten him up that steep, narrow flight of stairs.”

“Okay, three women,” he said.

We all chuckled a bit, and I said, "I'll give you three people, Doc, but two were men. One did the killing, two took him up the stairs, and the gal covered up the body.”

“Maybe,” he said.

I took some measurements and blood samples for the lab, but the real job would begin when everyone left and the body was removed to the morgue. We would do a whole house search for trace evidence and, of course, the murder weapon, which I was certain the killer brought with him and took with him when he left the scene.

The four of us reconvened in the kitchen, and Matt Devlin began. "Latham's body was discovered by his next-door neighbor, Reuben Stacks. They are close friends and golfing buddies and had an early afternoon tee time with two other friends at the Hempstead Country Club.”

“Nice course,” I said, having played there a few times – by invitation – myself. “Was he a member?”

“Yes,” Devlin said. “All four are. According to Stacks, Latham was the best in the group – a ten handicap.”

“I’m not sure what that means,” Rich Gianelli said, uttering his first comment in a while, “but don’t you have to be rich to be a member of a country club?”

“Hempstead is a working-man’s club,” I said, “Oh, you need several thousand to join, but not near the forty or fifty thousand you have to pony up to join the Jewish clubs on the North Shore that Milstein here belongs to.”

“Fuck you and your stupid golf,” Milstein said, “what a waste of time and money. Country clubs – bah.”

“According to Stacks,” Devlin said, “Bill Latham was a successful liquor salesman and then became a part-owner in three area liquor stores. He doesn’t work there, just invested in them.”

“Any wife and kids?” Gianelli asked.

“A wife, no kids,” Devlin responded.

“And where is Mrs. Latham now?” Doc Milstein asked.

“At a matinee on Broadway. With her mother.”

“Aha! Two women.”

"Both of whom, it seems, have a damn good alibi," I said.

“Oh, crap,” Gianelli said. “She doesn’t know about this yet.”

"No," Devlin said. "I and my partner, who is now out canvassing the area, will make her aware of that when she arrives home."

“Her reaction will be most interesting,” I said.

“Indeed,” Devlin said, looking at his watch. “The ladies should be out of their show and having an early dinner in their favorite Midtown restaurant by now. That’s what Stacks said their plans were. And the foursome was going to have drinks and dinner at the club after their round of golf.”

“Are we done here?” Milstein asked. “I’m ready to release the body.”

We all nodded, and Devlin went outside to notify the morgue attendants, who had been waiting at least half an hour, that they could bag up their cadaver and take it away. I said, "All of us here have picked up more bodies – alive and dead – for transport than we care to remember. Here's what's going to happen. One guy will grab under the shoulders, and the other guy will grab the ankles. When they lift, the middle of that 190-pound body is going to sag, and one of them will ask us to help with that. That will be you, Rich, as the junior man here.”

"No problem, Jack," he said, raising his hands. "I still have my gloves on."

“Hey,” Milstein said. “Are we going to have a pool on this or not? How about ten bucks a man? Whoever gets closest without going over wins the pot.”

“Don’t go for it, Rich,” I said. “This Lower East Side conniving Jew will pick the number exactly because he’ll add a few extra cuts if necessary.”

Milstein laughed out loud and said, “Devlin will be at the post to verify the number, you fucking anti-Semite.”

“I don’t trust this Irish prick either. He'll go along with your scam and split the pot with you. Only Rich and I will be out the dough."

Milstein and Devlin laughed, and the doctor said, “I hope I live long enough to get you on my table, Barrett.”

“In your dreams,” I said, laughing with him and shaking hands.

The morgue attendants came in and, just as I predicted, needed help with the middle of the corpse. As Milstein walked away, he held up three fingers and said, “Women.”

By the time Rich and I finished the search, two hours had passed, and Mrs. Latham and her mother had not yet arrived home. Devlin and his partner, Detective Charles Karazia, sat at the kitchen table going over their notes. “All done?” Devlin asked.

“Yes,” I said, and not much to show for our efforts or to aid your investigation. No weapon found, although he had a lot of tools in the basement workshop. We vacuumed up the areas in the den and rec room for any trace evidence that the Lab may find. And hopefully the latent print guys found something useful for you.”

“Thanks, guys,” he said. “You can get going now.”

“What’s your take on this, Matt?”

"Charlie and I were just mulling that over. As you know, we always look at the spouse first and a possible motive. Charlie discovered through his neighborhood canvass that Bill Latham may have been a womanizer, with more than one in his sphere of activity.  That opens a lot of avenues to investigate – spousal jealousy, girlfriend jealousy, husband/boyfriend/brother of girlfriend out for revenge.”

And then there’s the money motive," Karazia said. "We have to find out what insurance policies were on his life, and who the beneficiaries were. His wife? His business associates?"

I nodded and said, “You got a lot of work ahead, but you are two of the best. You’ll solve it for sure.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Devlin said. “Tell me what you feel went down here, Jack. I always value your opinion.”

“This is a tricky one, and I lean toward two options. One, a jealous girlfriend found out he was married, or she found out he was cheating on her with another girlfriend. She then enlisted two guys, maybe her brothers, to whack him. However, this seems to be an over-the-top reaction – a good beating should have sufficed.

“Second, the wife did it. She found out about all his cheating affairs and hired someone to whack him while providing an iron-clad alibi for her and momma being in Manhattan at the time of the murder. But why hire three people? And now that I’m putting my thoughts into words, none of it sounds right, rational, or logical.”

“Our conclusions run along similar lines,” Karazia said. “As you said, we have our work cut out for us on this one.”

“Maybe he cheated his business partners or golfing buddies,” Rich Gianelli said. “Guess you can’t rule that out.”

We all looked at the newbie and nodded. Devlin said, “Good observation, Rich. A lot of work to do, indeed.”

                                                          Part Two

      About a week later, I walked up the stairs from my office to the Homicide Squad on the second floor. It was before nine a.m., and I wanted to catch Matt and Charlie before they hit the streets. They were just finishing up their coffee and gathering up their files, and I said, “How’s it going, guys?”

Devlin smiled and said, “Axe me no questions, Jack, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

With that, he turned away from me and headed out the door with Karazia following. Charlie glanced at me and gave me a slight roll of his eyes. This brush-off was highly unusual, as Matt knew how interested I was in this case and helping him in any way I could to solve it. Maybe it was the fact that the physical evidence from us, the lab, and the fingerprint section came up with a big fat zero. But I wanted to reinforce the fact that at least one of the perps had to have the victim’s blood on his clothes, assuming he or she had not already disposed of them.

Two months later, with no arrests or suspects developed on the case, Matt Devlin put in for retirement. This surprised me as he was a fairly young man. I later found out he was a “twenty-and-out” guy, claiming that he wouldn’t work for half-pay when he could collect it and work somewhere else. And he did have something else worthwhile – a commercial roofing and parking lot paving business with his two brothers.

I sought him out a few days later and offered my congratulations and wishes for his future success. As we shook hands, he grinned and said, "You’re not going to axe me any questions, are you?”

"Not at all, Matt," I said.

Another blow-off. Why didn’t he want to talk about the case with me? I had to talk to Charlie Karazia – alone – and find out what was going on here. I called one of my friends in Homicide to find out when Karazia was working without Devlin around. "Charlie's working nights starting tomorrow, and Devlin's on vacation until his retirement date."

“Thanks, Vince. I guess he really can’t wait to get out of there.”

Charlie Karazia was working an office tour on Thursday, meaning he wasn’t catching cases that night but following up on his current cases. I switched to a night tour and called him after the five p.m. crew in headquarters went home. “Hey, Jack,” he said. “What’s up?

“Got any plans for dinner tonight?”

“Nope.”

“How about Mulcahy’s around 6:30? You drive, I’ll buy.”

“That’s a good offer, but I’m guessing I’ll end up paying one way or another.”

“How so?”

“I bet you’re planning to axe me a whole lotta questions.”

“Damn right I am, Charlie, me boy."

      We settled into a booth and ordered drinks. “So what’s troubling you, Detective Barrett?”

“Everything, Charlie. Matt Devlin’s odd behavior. This case. I mean, no leads, no suspects? What the hell is going on?”

Charlie took a sip of his bourbon and nodded. “Jack, this case could have been solved. It should have been solved. Devlin dropped the ball.”

“But you’ve picked the ball up now and you’re running with it, right?”

“Wrong – for two reasons. Lieutenant Reynolds put the case on the back burner and took me off it.”

"I don't believe it? How can he bury a high-profile case like this? A fucking vicious axe murder –

“With twenty-seven axe wounds,” he said, smiling.

“Yeah, I shoulda went along with Milstein’s pool.”

"The case is old news already, Jack. The neighbors are not demanding justice, and the widow is not screaming for an arrest. Nobody seems that upset that poor Mister William Latham has departed planet Earth."

“But you said the case was solvable. Why not push it with Reynolds?”

“Because I, too, am retiring from the job next month.”

“Holy crap!”

 Jack, I have thirty-five years on the job, twenty in Homicide, and I just turned sixty-two.”

I nodded. A 3/4 pension plus social security. I couldn’t argue with that. Life, after all, was short. “Good for you, Charlie. You deserve it. Are you going to join a golf club?”

“God forbid. I agree with Doc Milstein on that. A twenty-foot boat and fishing the lakes and streams of the Catskills is all I want.”

We ordered our cheeseburgers, and Charlie smiled and said, "Are you done axing questions?”

“Just one more, Charles. How can this case be solved?”

“First, tell me why you're so interested. What's bugging you about it?"

“I relate strongly to Bill Latham. We’re the same height and weight. We’re both golfers. When I opened the basement closet door where the blood had seeped in, there were a pair of golf shoes that were exactly like mine – black and cordovan with real spikes.”

“No doubt your size, too. You shoulda clipped them for an extra pair.”

“Very funny. Latham is a black guy, and I’m wondering if he was a white guy, would this case have been buried so fast?"

“I don’t think that mattered at all. After we eat, we’ll get another drink or two, and I’ll tell you all I know.”                                                             

       And Charlie did tell me a whole lot. Stacy Latham and her mother, Elsie Hubbard, arrived home via taxicab from the Baldwin railroad station a little after 7:30 that evening to be greeted by Matt and Charlie with the terrible news of Bill's death. Fortunately, a couple of helpful neighbors had volunteered to mop up the floor and walls of the blood pools and spatters, and the rec room looked clean and shiny. The reaction of both women – white women, by the way – was what you would have expected – tears, screams, shouts, and rage. And both asked the detectives, who could have done this? Which same question they were about to ask them.

They had no idea. Bill was a good husband and provider and had no enemies that they were aware of. Then came the touchy questions – Do you suspect that Bill may have been involved with another woman? No! Does he owe anyone a lot of money? No! Does he gamble? No! Not even on his golf game? Uh, I don’t know.”

Charlie found out that Latham was more than a liquor salesman. He was an accountant, having put himself through night school. Three of the businesses for which he kept the books were those in which he had a part interest. Latham had only one life-insurance policy – for $100,000 – which he purchased seven years ago and never increased. That was it in a nutshell. I said, “What was your impression of their truthfulness?”

“They seemed genuine, but I’ve seen grief faked before.”

“Did Matt ask the Big Question?”

“Like, did you hire someone to kill your husband?"

“Yeah.”

“No, and I agree that should have been asked as part of the polygraph exam.”

“And?”

“She never took one.”

“Claimed her Fifth Amendment rights, blah-blah?”

“No, Matt never asked her to take one.”

“Wh-a-a-t?”

“And I pushed him on it more than once, but he always blew me off. Said it wasn’t the right time yet.”

“And then he retired.”

“Yup.”

“And he never found any lady friends of Latham’s?”

“Nope.”

“And he never found any people he owed money to?”

“Nope.”

“And he never found any of his business clients who may have been swindled by their upstanding accountant?”

“Nope.”

I drew in a breath, then blew it out, saying, "You are right, Charlie. This case can be solved. Just takes the right detective with the right motivation.”

“So go do it, Jack. Solve the case for Bill Latham. Slap the cuffs on his killers – all three of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

"Devlin's opening hasn't been filled yet, and I'm creating another opening soon. Go talk to Reynolds. You have all the experience necessary to qualify for the job. Get the transfer first and later see if he'll let you run with it."

I didn't wait to act on Charlie's suggestion. The next morning, back on days, I walked into the Homicide Squad and asked the secretary if I could speak with the boss. She called him, and I saw him pick up the phone in his glass-walled office. "Go right in," Gloria said.

I made my request based on my qualifications and did not mention the Latham case as Charlie suggested. Lieutenant Reynolds seemed impressed with me and said he would consider me for one of the openings when he got the approval to fill them. I left his office with high hopes, feet barely touching the ground.

Two weeks later, a department order came out, and Reynolds was transferred to the Narcotics Squad, and Lieutenant Frank Simmons came to Homicide from the Third Squad. A week later, he filled both openings with detectives from the squad he just left. That's the way things work in the police department. No surprise at all. I went back to work, and the Latham case stayed in the drawer, gathering dust and growing colder and colder.

Part Three

      Four years had gone by, and a few things had happened in my career. A year after I tried to get into Homicide, my number came up on the sergeant’s list, and I got transferred to the Fifth Squad as a detective supervisor. A year after that, it was back to CSSU as second in command. And eight months later, Lieutenant Simmons made captain and transferred to uniform. Long-time Homicide Sergeant Eddie Millack, made lieutenant and got command of the Homicide Squad. His first call was to me. “Jack, I need a sergeant to replace me, and I want you.”

“I’m packing my bags, Eddie,” I said as a vision of Bill Latham lying on that futon axed to death flashed through my mind.

Every third week, I worked the four-to-twelve shift, and when it wasn't busy and the people of Nassau County were not murdering each other, I would read a section of the Latham file, and it didn’t take much time at all to complete it. Matt Devlin had definitely dropped the ball, and the case cried out for a lot more investigation, a lot more than the mere six inches of reports it contained.

After I read it the second time, making notes for follow-up, I broached Eddie with my plan. I told him everything that Karazia had told me, and he said, "I remember this case well, Jack. And I wondered why it wasn't pursued more vigorously. But then, Devlin retired, and we got a slew of murders, and Reynolds had to put it on the shelf."

"So can I run with it now? I'll need one detective, and we'll work it between active cases. And if I incur any overtime, I won't put in for it."

Eddie smiled and said, “I like your tenacity and sense of justice, Jack. Pick your man and go do it. Keep track of both your hours. If you solve it – and make an arrest – I’ll pay you. If you hit a dead end, it goes back on the shelf. Deal?”

“Deal,” I said. “I wish Karazia were still here, but I’ll take Frank Cardone as a very acceptable substitute.”

“You got him. Now go get the killers.”

Cardone jumped in with eagerness, having also remembered the case and the lack of a conclusion. We laid out our plan of action and hit the street on an early spring morning with an unannounced visit to the widow and her mother.

When she opened the door, and we identified ourselves, Stacy Latham appeared reluctant to engage in conversation, saying, "My Bill has been gone almost five years now. What's the point?"

“The point,” I explained, “is that we never close a case. I was the technician who processed the murder scene, but I left before you and your mom came back from the city. I'm in Homicide now, and Bill deserves to have us never forget him, or the way he died, as you'll certainly never forget him."

That seemed to soften her a bit, and she invited us in and asked her mother to come down and join us. I first asked her to recall her day in the city, which she readily did. When she finished, I said, "Mrs. Latham, I should have asked you this first, and I apologize for not doing so. How are you and Mrs. Hubbard doing since Bill's death? Are you okay financially?"

"Yes," she said. "With the insurance money, I was able to pay off the mortgage and arrange a nice funeral for Bill. I've always worked – I manage a small vitamin store – so we can pay our bills and get by."

We nodded, and Frank said, "Mrs. Latham, since the time of Bill's passing, did anyone contact you about any money Bill had owed them?"

“No, why did you ask that?”

“We’re still searching for a motive, or any reason, someone would commit such a horrific act.”

Then I hit her with it – “Mrs. Latham, did you hire someone to murder your husband?”

“What? How dare you –”

“Please calm down,” I said. “It’s a question that had to be asked.” And should have been asked five years ago.

“I did no such thing.”

“Would you be willing to answer that question while undergoing a polygraph examination?”

“I…uh… you mean a lie detector?”

“Yes.”

“Uh, I’d have to talk to a lawyer first.”

"Sure," I said. "Here's a list of the questions we would ask."

She looked at the paper I had handed her and said, “I’ll let you know,” her words having as much frost on them as this cold case.

As we drove away, Cardone said, “No doubt, she’ll never let us know.”

“No doubt, but something is bothering me about that interview – her mother.”

“Huh?”

“Just sat there. Never said a word, not even to protest our accusation against her daughter. Strange.”

“Maybe we should talk to her alone?”

“Yeah, but not now. Let’s do all the rest first, and start with his business activities.”

After three days of interviews, it was obvious that Bill Latham was an honest man, at least when it came to money. There were no indications of him embezzling funds from the liquor stores he part-owned, nor at any of the other twenty-two small businesses for which he kept the books. But we did come away with one important bit of information told to us by three of his clients. The wording was different, but they all essentially said, "Billy Boy didn't have time to steal our money. Between his golf and numerous lady-friends, he didn't have time for thieving."

The golf buddies – Reuben Stacks and two others were in the file, so at least Devlin did something right, and we set up interviews with them. Devlin's report concluded that “they could provide no pertinent information to this case.” But when Frank and I interviewed them, except for Reuben Stacks, the two others said they were never interviewed, or spoken to, by any detective from the police department, and were surprised by that fact. So Devlin lied. Why? Laziness? Or something sinister that we had yet to uncover?

All three of Bill's foursome – two white and one black – confirmed that Bill was a womanizer of major proportions. As I mentioned, he was a handsome, rugged guy with a killer smile and gals of all persuasions – black, white, Hispanic – you name it – flocked to him. When I suggested that perhaps these gals found out about each other and/or the fact that Bill was married, and that they whacked him or hired someone to whack him, all disagreed. “However,” Reuben said, “I’m sure they knew he was married. Didn’t matter, I guess.”

"So, tell me, guys, if my theory is wrong, who killed Bill Latham and why?" They had no answer, but we came away with the names of four of Bill's lady friends and the town they lived in for three of them. It was time to do some database research and plan our next moves.

Back in the office, coffee cups in hand, Frank Cardone said, “This is going to be a tough one to crack, Jack. We have no physical evidence at all. We gotta get someone to open up. But who?”

 “I just don’t know, Frank. Let’s see what we can dig up on Latham’s list of honeys.”

We easily located the addresses and pertinent information on all four women whose names were given to us by Latham’s buddies. From their driver’s license photos, all were very attractive. Two were white, one black, and the fourth had a Hispanic surname. Further digging revealed that two were single, one was divorced, and one was married. And when we dug down a bit more, the maiden names of the divorcee and the married woman were revealed. And there it was! A connection. Constance “Connie” Reinhart’s maiden name was Devlin!

“Look at her age,” Frank said. “She’s probably Matt’s younger sister.”

“More research will tell us that,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

Matt Devlin was one of five children. Two brothers – Brian and Michael, and two sisters – Constance and Stacy.

“Stacy!” Frank exclaimed. “Could it be?”

“Let’s locate pictures and find out,” I said, my juices really starting to flow now.

And sure enough, Matt Devlin’s other sister was the late Bill Latham’s wife. “Let’s lay this all out to the boss,” I said, “and see how he wants to proceed.”

After listening to us and looking at what we discovered, he said, "Tell me what you conclude."

“Stacy Latham found out her husband was screwing her sister, among other women, and told her brother Matt about it,” I said.

"Then," Cardone said, "They arranged the murder, making sure Stacy had an alibi and that it occurred on a day Matt was catching cases, assuring a fruitless investigation."

Millack rubbed his chin and said, “I like it, but…”

“But we gotta get someone to talk or this goes absolutely nowhere,” I said.

“Right, so get the hell outta here and find that someone.”

                                                              #

      We located the three other women easily enough over the next few days, choosing not to confront Connie at this stage. All three readily admitted their affairs with Bill Latham. Their stories were essentially identical: Bill was a fun guy to be with, a great lover, and a big spender on them at fancy restaurants and bars. They had no idea who would kill him, and certainly not them, when we asked the question. We asked all three if they could give us a clue as to who might have murdered Bill, but they had no idea. One said, “Maybe his wife, if she found out about his cheating ways. But why not just divorce him?”

Good question, we agreed and began to look at other people in this case, now having ruled these three women out as suspects. "So what's your theory now, Jack?" Frank asked as we drove back to the office.

"Stacy found out somehow that her husband was screwing her sister and told Matt about it. Matt told his two brothers and his brother-in-law, and they planned the murder while Stacy and their mother were in the city, and when Matt was the homicide guy catching cases that day, ensuring the murder would never be properly investigated."

“That scenario makes sense, but it’s hard to swallow. Why not just beat him up? Or why not just shoot him?”

"The whole setup was to have everyone believe it was a crime of passion committed by vengeful women who had been betrayed and duped by their lover. Hence, the attempt to cover up the body and nine hits to the groin area, almost slicing off all his equipment."

Cardone grimaced at that thought, his hand automatically reaching to his crotch. I laughed and said, “Let’s go at Stacy Latham again. We have some ammo now to hit her hard.”

We made a pretense call to make sure she was home, and that afternoon we arrived unannounced. When she answered the door, she immediately said, "I haven't consulted a lawyer yet about the lie detector.”

“No problem,” I said. “We discovered some information about the case we’d like your opinion on, if you don’t mind.”

She hesitated, but let us in, saying, "I want my mother to be in on this conversation, if you don't mind."

“Not at all,” I said, thinking your mother, Connie’s mother, and Matt’s mother.

When we were seated at the kitchen table once again, I said, “I know you told us before that Bill didn’t fool around with other women, was that correct?”

“That’s what I said, and what I still believe.”

“Well, unfortunately, we found out otherwise.”

“What?” she exclaimed, as I noticed her mother shift in her chair.

“Can you tell me if you recognize any of these names?” Cardone asked. “Elizabeth Jamison?”

“No.”

“Katherine Darwell?”

“No.”

“Maria Rivera?”

“No.”

“Constance Reinhart?”

Stacy sat up straight, and I noticed Mrs. Hubbard flinch. Stacy said, "Constance? Connie? My sister!?”

“Yes,” I said. “We have solid evidence that you’re husband was having affairs with all four women that Detective Cardone just mentioned.”

“I don’t believe it! Any of it. And not my sister.”

“Yes, you believe it,” Cardone said. “And you knew about it all along, and you hired people to murder your cheating husband.”

“No, she didn’t,” Elsie Hubbard said. “I did.”

We were all stunned into silence, and before I could advise her of her right to remain silent, she said, "The philandering bastard deserved it.”

“Mom!”

“Mrs. Hubbard,” I said. “Please let me advise you of your rights before you continue.”

“I know my rights, and I waive them. It’s about time this all came out. I’m a sick old woman with no money – I gave it all to my naïve daughter here while her Billy Boy spent all theirs on golf and whores. I buried two good-for-nothing husbands, John Devlin and Walter Hubbard, who were no better than my son-in-law.”

Stacy bent her head on the table and began sobbing as her mother spilled it all.

“I have arthritis, diabetes, and a bad ticker. I can hardly get up those stairs anymore. He’s dead, and he deserved to die like he did, the bastard.”

“Who did the murder?” I asked.

"I don't know. The private investigator I hired to follow Bill to confirm his affairs said he would arrange it."

“For how much?” Cardone asked.

“Fifteen thousand dollars,” she said. “All I had.”

“And what’s this private eye’s name, Mrs. Hubbard?” I asked.

“Uh… I don’t remember.”

“Why did they kill him in that manner? Did you specify that?”

“Uh, no. Maybe he hired those three women to do it. And they got their vengeance on him.”

I looked at Frank, and he nodded. Both of us knew this story was 100% bullshit, and we knew why.

“Mrs. Hubbard,” I said. “Most of what you just told us is a pack of lies. We know who did it – your three sons and your son-in-law. You first told Matt about Connie, and he set it up. Your family got their revenge on William Latham.”

She began to sob. Stacy, who had just stopped sobbing, now sat upright, staring vacantly across the room. "Mrs. Hubbard," I said. "You are under arrest for murder. It would be in your best interests to put this all on paper now."

We held our breath and she said, “I stand by what I told you before. My sons and son-in-law had nothing at all to do with Bill’s murder. Period.”

Well, we had an admission of murder, and an arrest was finally made in the case, but it wasn’t solved to our satisfaction by any means. Frank and I were wondering if any of Elsie Hubbard’s children would come forward and admit their guilt in order to save their mother. None did, and as the days passed, we pondered what to do next, but the only avenue left was to confront each suspect with the hopes of cracking one of them.

“That would be a big waste of time, Jack,” Frank said when I broached the idea.

“You’re right,” I reluctantly agreed. “With Matt coaching them, they would slam the door in our face without saying a word.”

#

      Elsie Hubbard had gotten a lawyer who had pleaded her not guilty. She was indicted by the Grand Jury, and her murder trial was set to begin in six months. Because of her age and illnesses, she was released on relatively low bail and put on house confinement. We considered applying for a wiretap on her phone, which probably would not have been granted, but figured Matt would coach her on not talking on the phone about her case with anyone.

Before the news of Elsie Hubbard’s arrest hit the airwaves, I had placed a call to Charlie Karazia and laid the whole thing out to him. “Great job, Jack, and I agree with your conclusions.”

“Thanks, Charlie, but it wasn’t such a great job. Elsie’s arrest didn’t close this thing at all.”

“So go get the rest of the killers.”

“Please tell me how, O wise one.”

“You’re right about the Devlins all clamming up, but I think the sister – Connie – may be the weak link. She may be worth approaching soon.”

“How do you figure that, Charlie?”

“I bet the family is putting pressure on her to keep her mouth shut in light of Elsie’s arrest. Remember, she had an affair with the victim. She may have had strong feelings for him and may still have them.”

“Thanks, old friend,” I said. “I’ll definitely consider that. Hey, how’s the fishing up there? Bored yet? Want to get back in the game?”

“Fishing’s fine. Brook trout for dinner tonight. Then a scotch and a cigar on our porch overlooking the lake. This is my game now. Your game is still on.”

Two days after that phone call, as Frank and I were pondering how and when to approach Connie Reinhart, she called us. “Unidentified female wanting to talk to you, Sarge,” Gloria called out.

I picked up and she said, “This is Constance Reinhart. I have to talk to you right away, but not at a police location.”

I readily agreed and arranged to meet her at an outdoor park thirty miles away in Suffolk County.

Connie, like her sister, Stacy, was an attractive woman even under the fading black eye and yellow-green bruises on her jaw. We sat at a picnic table, and she opened up. "My husband, Stan, did this to me. He threatened me with death if I opened up about Bill Latham's murder. But I think he's going to kill me regardless."

“Why do you think that?”

“He never got over my affair with Bill. We were truly in love and planned to divorce our spouses and run away together. And the fact that Bill was black and Stan is a racist didn't help matters. I know he's been running around on me lately, and I think the money a divorce settlement would cost him has him convinced that my death would solve all his problems."

Where is he now?” Frank asked.

“Away on a two-day business trip, if you know what I mean.”

“Connie,” I said. “I want to put you in protective custody and get you into the Grand Jury right away. We’ll stop by your house to pick up your things.”

She smiled, which obviously still hurt, and said, “My bags are already packed and in the trunk of my car.”

      The next day, the Grand Jury returned murder indictments against Stan Reinhart and the three Devlin brothers. We assembled at the Homicide Squad to plan the arrests – two detectives for each suspect – with two more as backup, if needed. Frank and I chose Matt Devlin, of course.

With a few pretense calls to the offices of Devlin Brothers Roofing and Paving, we ascertained that Matt was in the office that day, and brothers Brian and Michael were out on jobs. Shortly after ten a.m., we knocked on their Massapequa office door and asked the receptionist if we could speak to Mr. Matt Devlin.

“Who may I say wants to see him?”

“Old friends from the Homicide Squad,” I said as we each handed her a card. “Just say Jack Barrett and Frank Cardone, he’ll know who we are.”

She did as we requested, and shortly later, a smiling, but perplexed-looking Matt Devlin, came into the reception area. I had not seen Matt in five years. He had cut all ties with the department, never showing up for any affairs or retirement parties, and he looked fit and healthy.

"What's up, guys?" he asked, glancing at the cards his receptionist had handed him. "Sergeant Jack Barrett,” he said. “And now in the Homicide Squad. You’re not planning on –”

“No,” I interrupted him. “I’m not planning on axing you any questions at all.”

“Then what brings you to visit me?”

“To arrest you for murder, hindering prosecution, among other charges, and to read you your rights.”

As I began to read Matt the Miranda warnings, Frank patted him down and snapped the cuffs on him behind his back. We then walked him out the door as his open-mouthed receptionist watched us leave.

After we processed Matt and remanded him to jail, I had one more task to do before I began the rest of the paperwork – a visit to the morgue.

I found Doc Milstein in his office, still in his scrubs, chewing on a cigar. “Finished for the day?” I asked.

“Yes, and it was a busy day indeed. Don’t tell me you’re shipping me more murder victims, Barrett.”

“No, Doc, you posted this murder victim five years ago. Twenty-seven whacks, remember?”

“How could I forget that one? Three women did it, I told you. Not that old lady you locked up.”

“You’re partially right, Doc. The old lady didn’t do it. We just locked up four men, three of whom did the actual murder. Three men, Doc.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

“Matt Devlin planned the whole thing. The three killers were two of his brothers and his brother-in-law.”

“Matt Devlin? You gotta be kidding!”

“Not at all, and Bill Latham’s widow – Stacy – was Matt’s sister.”

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“Thought I’d tell you personally before it hits the news later.”

“Well, thanks for that, Jackie. Oh, by the way, Latham was whacked thirty-one times, not twenty-seven.”

“Whaddya mean? I read the autopsy report.”

“I changed it to make you happy, Jack. What’s the difference anyway? He was just as dead with either number.”

“To make me happy?”

“I break your balls, but I do like you a little bit.

I laughed and said, “That’s good to know. If you happen to get me on one of your tables before you retire, you’ll be gentle with me?”

Patting me on the back, he smiled and said, “Jackie, I’ll make sure my tools are razor sharp. I assure you, you won’t feel a thing.”