Dead Wrong (26 page)

Undoubtedly, the medical examiner had determined a time of death, but Koznicki was not yet advised on that. He would learn that November 30 was well within the M.E.’s ballpark time frame.

“You said,” Koznicki continued, “that they—Agnes and this Peter Arnold—dated frequently. Do you have any idea how long that had been going on?”

Her expression brightened. “I can tell you exactly when it began.”

Koznicki was amazed at how quickly this case was coming together. His first homicide interrogation, and his informant—the decedent’s closest friend—could testify on virtually every important question, and—most significant surprise of all—believed she knew who the killer was. Beginner’s luck? He waited for DeFalco to recall the precise date Ventimiglia and Arnold had begun dating.

“It was his twenty-first birthday. I remember she said he asked her out to dinner to celebrate his becoming a man—an adult. It was… November seventh, I forget which year—wait a minute: If that was his twenty-first birthday, his year of birth would have to be … 1939, wouldn’t it?”

“My arithmetic agrees with yours.”

“So that’s it, then,” DeFalco said. “Peter Arnold was the only man she was ever serious about … golly, the only man she ever dated! They saw each other constantly for about a month. As far as I know, he was the last person she saw before she disappeared … unless … unless she was on her way to her date with Peter and maybe she got mugged. Was she… uh … attacked?”

“I will know that when I talk with the medical examiner, which will be immediately after I finish talking with you. But, if she did not keep her date with Arnold … or if she disappeared after her date, I would think it only natural that he would report that and probably join in the search for her. Unless, of course, you are correct and he killed her.

“One would think,” he added, “that if she were missing, he would check with her place of employment. He did not call or get in touch with you, with anyone in this office?”

“Not with me, and I don’t think with anyone else. Everyone here knows I am—” She shook her head. “I
was
Aggie’s friend; they would’ve come to me if they’d gotten a phone call or an inquiry like that. What happens now?” she asked, half-hopefully, half-hopelessly.

“We will proceed with the investigation. Meanwhile, if you think of anything else that might be helpful, any bit of information, please get in touch with me.” New on the job, he did not have a business card to give her. He wrote his name and the Homicide number on a page of his notebook, tore it out, and handed it to her.

As he was leaving, she called after him. “Officer! Officer Koz … Koz …” She read his name from the paper he’d just given her. “Koznicki. I just remembered: where they were supposed to go on their last date. She mentioned it just before she left me. It was the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars. She also said that they never went to the same restaurant twice; it was always different ones.”

Koznicki entered that in his notebook.

“Thank you, Miss DeFalco. You have been very helpful. Remember, if you think of anything else, please call us.”

Teary-eyed again, she nodded, as her shoulders slumped and she gave herself up to grief.

Before leaving the Wayne County Morgue, Koznicki checked with the M.E.’s office. Among the things he learned: The November 30 date was well within the parameters established for the time of death of the deceased. And there was no indication of any sexual assault; indeed, physically the dead woman had been a virgin.

There was no doubt in Koznicki’s mind that Rosemarie DeFalco was an accurate witness, both as to the facts in this case and in the conclusions she had drawn.

Lieutenant Davis took charge of what was, with the information DeFalco had supplied, now a fast-paced investigation.

It was not difficult to locate Peter Arnold,
the
Peter Arnold born on November 7, 1939. Father: Samuel Arnold, white, age 22, born in Michigan, owner of a small auto parts factory, living at 30105 West Seven Mile in Redford Township; mother, Laura Jean Trucky, white, age 18, born in Michigan. Peter Arnold’s birth had been in Redford Community Hospital.

It scarcely could be any other Peter Arnold.

But it was not Agnes Ventimiglia’s Peter Arnold.

Peter Arnold, at six feet four, was hardly of “moderate build or average height.” His hair was not dark, but blond. His eyes were undistinguished. But above all, he traveled extensively for his employer-father. He had been out of town, indeed much of the time out of state, during most of November—including November seventh and November thirtieth. And this was corroborated by a variety of business associates and customers.

The explanation was simple enough: Anybody could get anybody’s vital record as long as it was filed in the county clerk’s cabinets. It would be many years before that system was tightened and regulated.

Somehow, the killer had learned that Peter Arnold was about to have a twenty-first birthday. It could have been anyone. Statistics are easily available. Births are even listed in the daily newspapers, back issues of which are available at any library. The twenty-first birthday would be a logical event to celebrate, giving the killer a pretext to invite someone out to dinner.

But why?

Not why would someone want to date Agnes Ventimiglia; she may have been rather plain, but plain girls dated. Besides, from what Koznicki could tell, she had had the potential of being attractive. With a little work, and help from Rosemarie DeFalco, Agnes had become a desirable package for the occasion of her murder.

But why would a man who wanted to date her pretend to be someone else? And why would that man date her on a practically incessant basis rather than merely periodically, for nearly an entire month, only to kill her at the end of that month? And if he lied about his name in the beginning, was it because he had planned from the beginning to kill her?

Every ounce of logic would demand that there be some purpose, some goal, some reason, something to gain from this.

If it was some pathological, insane killer, why the month? He could have killed her on any one of the early dates.

If he had wanted to string the encounters out to gain her confidence so he could have sex with her, why hadn’t he? According to DeFalco, Agnes was indeed ready, primed, for romance on that last date. If he wanted sex he could have had it for the asking.

But no. He didn’t. He killed her in as cold-blooded a manner as possible.

The consensus of the members of Squad Three was that the killer had wanted something from Agnes Ventimiglia. There was no way of telling whether he had gotten it.

He killed her either because he got what he wanted and was done with her … or because he did not get what he wanted and was frustrated and furious with her.

A check of resorts in the state revealed no reservation in either the name Arnold or Ventimiglia. A further check revealed a few names of people who had checked in together in two separate rooms. But the follow-up led only to a dead end. On investigation, most of the couples registered had legitimate reasons for their stays … and in every one of those cases the woman involved was still very much alive. In the remaining few cases, the rooms had been paid for in cash at the time of check-in; the phone numbers and addresses given were spurious, and in any case, none of the employees even recalled any of the couples. Koznicki believed Agnes had told Rosemarie the truth. Probably Arnold had convinced her it would be wiser not to use her real name. By that time, Koznicki concluded, Agnes undoubtedly would have done anything he’d asked.

Which probably applied to whatever it was the killer had really wanted from her. Koznicki believed that the killer had gotten what he was after, then killed her.

They checked for insurance, but the only policy they found was one that had been taken out years before, naming her parents as beneficiary. They checked her bank accounts, but there were no out-of-the ordinary withdrawals. She had had no jewelry outside of the usual—a string of simulated pearls, a few pins and bracelets, a couple of gold-filled necklaces, some earrings—all clip-on, her ears were not pierced—a high school ring, a Mexican silver ring, two watches, one the Timex that she wore daily to work, the other a Longines that was on her wrist when she was pulled from the water.

To the best of Rosemarie’s knowledge—and her grieving parents confirmed this—Agnes Ventimiglia had possessed nothing worth killing her for.

They checked with Joe Beyer, proprietor and customary maître d’ of the Pontchartrain Wine Cellars. Joe did not keep a record of reservations running weeks back. Nor did he or any of his staff recognize the photo of Agnes Ventimiglia, nor the description of Peter Arnold.

And, according to the declaration of Agnes herself, they never went to the same restaurant twice. So the Wine Cellars was not the only restaurant checked, but the investigators came up empty on all of them.

However, that said something to Koznicki. Of all the restaurateurs in the Detroit area, no one took better care of his patrons, paid more attention to them and remembered them better than Joe Beyer. It was natural for the killer to save the Wine Cellars—one of the best—for last. But he would not chance going there more than once with the likelihood that Joe Beyer would remember him and his date. And for the killer to know that, he had to know Detroit and its restaurant scene intimately. Or so ran Koznicki’s line of reasoning; probably the killer was a Detroiter, possibly a native Detroiter.

It wasn’t much. But they didn’t have much to go on.

This killer was a professional in every sense of the word. He was a man of mystery. He entered from nowhere. He used someone else’s identity. He was known to one person and one person alone. And he killed her. Before that, he took her out on dates. But no one could remember seeing them. His victim had one close friend, and only one. Yet, even though Agnes confided in her friend Rosemarie, DeFalco had only the vaguest notion of what this man looked like. Finally, he simply disappeared. No record of any kind. No fingerprints. No footprints, for that matter.

In an investigation such as this, the more time that elapses the less likely the case is to be solved.

The critical time in this case had not yet passed, but leads were growing thin. The police were perilously close to an “open murder” charge, at which point they would move on. Although Davis assured Koznicki that no murder case is ever closed. As long as anyone maintains an interest in it, it lives.

A
GNES
V
ENTIMIGLIA
was to be buried tomorrow. Koznicki decided he would attend the funeral. One never knew; it was always possible a suspicious person might attend, of average height and weight, with dark, brushed-back hair clinging tightly to a patrician head, with heavy eyebrows shadowing riveting eyes.

One never knew.

C H A P T E R

21

S
T
. U
RSULA
’
S PARISH
was tucked away in a heavily compact neighborhood on Detroit’s near east side. Within its boundaries was a cemetery and Detroit City Airport, and the aroma of the potato chip plant across Gratiot wafted over its streets and sidewalks. Its population was approximately 40 percent Italian, 40 percent Polish, and 20 percent black. Most of the Italians and Polish were Catholic; most of the blacks weren’t.

At one time the neighborhood had been nearly 100 percent Italian. It had been known as—and was still called by some—Cacalupo, an ambiguous Italian pun that Father Robert Koesler never bothered resolving.

This was Father Robert Koesler’s third parochial assignment in five years—considerable shifting about in a day when assistant pastors usually lasted five years per parish.

This would be his second Christmas at St. Ursula’s, an occasion that brought pastor Robert Pompilio’s bosom buddy, Father Joe Farmer, to the parish to help out with seasonal confessions and Masses.

The three priests were at dinner. As usual, Koesler felt odd man out. He was quite tall, they were quite short. The two older men had been close friends for many years; Koesler had known Father Pompilio only a little more than a year and had been in Father Farmer’s company only occasionally during this time. Koesler, with a still-youthful appetite, ate rapidly; his companions ate at a leisurely pace. Koesler was eating steak; the other two were eating smelt.

Pompilio had caught the smelt in a fast-running Canadian stream. When he caught the fish, he was garbed in a present from Joe Farmer—a sleeping bag that, when properly folded, became a water-resistant ski suit. And, when properly unfolded, turned back into a sleeping bag.

The two buddies were inveterate gadgeteers who were constantly giving each other odd contrivances. Half the fun was trying to figure out what if any purpose such contraptions served.

Father Koesler reflected that the separate but unequal dinner they were eating was not nearly as bad as it might be. Early on, it had been established that he did not care for smelt. He could eat the fish—he could eat most anything—but smelt was far from his favorite dish.

There must have been thousands of the little devils in the rectory’s freezer. Pompilio had the housekeeper prepare masses and masses of smelt for him; out of consideration for his young assistant’s taste, steak was served for Koesler.