Some people can't let go.
My grandson and I sat Indian-style in what was once my favorite room in the house. But the warm, secure, "homey" sensation the den had so ably provided had been replaced by a complete absence of feeling. The room was now nothing more than a callous, cold and vacuous space. We were surrounded by boxes, packing material, tape and scissors as I prepared to move out of the house that had been my home for the past four decades. I was moving to Florida. No more cold weather, no more traffic jams, no more high taxes, and no more hot pastrami sandwiches. My doctor is happy about that. My grandson removed a framed photo off the wall, and shoved it under my nose.
Wow, what a double play combination we were back in the day! Joe Hertz, the second baseman, and I, the tall, rangy shortstop, won the coveted "High School Players of the Year." The two of us shared this prestigious award while playing for Evergreen High School way back when Mickey Mantle wore the pinstripes and roamed center field in The Bronx. Joe and I were the toast of our entire class, one thousand strong. We were both certain we'd wind up playing together in Yankee Stadium, alongside Mickey. Ah, dreams. After high school, we both went our separate ways. Poor guy, Joe was always unlucky with the girls, and then, unlucky in life. I remember hearing through the grapevine that he had tried to become a policeman, but for some reason, wasn't accepted into the force. He died on his thirtieth birthday in a freak motorcycle accident. Joe, with his rounded eyeglasses strapped around his head, cap too tight around his big head, turning the double play with an intense fierceness that rivaled a pit bull. I went on to play college baseball, and I was pretty good, too. But, I was no match for the real jocks. So I buckled down to my studies and graduated with honors from the criminal justice department at Central State University.
Upon graduation, I immediately embarked on a career in law enforcement. It was tough on everyone, especially the family, but hey, as the saying goes, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." I loved every minute of it. As I continued to fill boxes with the books and papers of my life, my mind raced with memories of a distant past. I had only one job my entire life, a homicide detective, a feat of which I am very proud. I could tell you stories that would amaze you, horrify you, and make you laugh. I helped put a lot of bad guys behind bars. I was there in 1976 and 1977 when the Son of Sam terrorized New York City. David Berkowitz. Who can forget him? He received all the headlines until we put him away for good. They all get caught in the end. All of them, that is, except The One. It received little attention at the time, having had the misfortune (or good fortune) of occurring during Son of Sam's reign of terror. I'm not certain, but maybe the press thought covering both stories in depth would have been too much for a frightened public. Perhaps this was one of the rare times the press showed restraint and good judgment? There were a few newspaper clippings, for sure, but for the most part, this killer flew under the radar. I'm sure I have copies of the stories somewhere, and they'll show up sooner or later during this move. But, I don't need clippings to remember. That creep is still out there, and to this day, the case continues to stick in my craw. What made him tick? What was it all about? Why had the murders stopped just as quickly and suddenly and unexpectedly as they had begun?
My mind drifted back. The first strangulation killing had occurred July 3, 1976. Ironically, it was the same day the Supreme Court ruled that, "the death penalty was not inherently cruel or unusual and is a constitutionally acceptable form of punishment." Susan Adams, mother of three and a nurse at Valley Central Hospital, was found dead in her backyard. The constant barking of the family dog at 3:00am woke the entire household. It was poor Sid Adams, Susan's husband, who made the grim discovery. I can still visualize him crying, pathetic, kneeling down and hugging his lifeless wife. I didn't have the heart to pull him away. Susan had no known enemies. There was no motive, no footprints or fingerprints, and no trace of the killer. There was however, an index card, a plain, ordinary 3x5 index card carefully placed under the body, with the words:
"TONY FOREVER"
The letters had been carefully cut from an issue of The New York Times and neatly pasted to the card. No one could figure this one out. It made little sense at the time and decades later, even less sense today. Who was Tony? What was his connection to Susan? Did he murder her? Sid Adams was no help and never a suspect. I worked the case along with Hal Coates, a veteran of the force, but nothing came of it. We interviewed countless people, did all the necessary legwork, but everything led down dead end streets. Susan Adams had become a sad statistic; another unsolved murder.
A couple of weeks later, I had had the proverbial tough day, so I headed to Joe's City Bar and Grille. I was enjoying a glass of hipsy, a drink Hal Coates had introduced me to, when who should approach my table, none other than the fore mentioned Mr. Coates.
"Pull up a bleacher, Hal. I'm buying," I said as I felt my shirt pocket for a cigar. Even before he could answer, I noticed he wasn't paying me a social call. And, I sensed this hipsy would go unfinished.
"Another index card murder," Hal said solemnly. This one occurred last night on Fourteenth Street, a hooker this time. She was strangled to death, same as the married lady. She…"
"Susan Adams," I interrupted.
"Yea," mumbled Coates. "Adams. This hooker went by the name of Sunshine. Ironic, huh? According to the medical examiner, he puts the time of death at around 2:00am. Real name was Felicia Washington. You think maybe there's a connection with the last names? You know, both being presidents?"
Hal Coates was tall and thin. He didn't look like a cop. He wore his hair in a crew cut, and it seemed as though he never needed a haircut. He was a loyal, tenacious, dedicated, and honest detective. I admired him. The guy had never married, living instead for his job. He wasn't the brightest guy on earth, but damned dependable and he knew his alcohol. "I don't think it has anything to do with their names, Hal. Hell, I might be wrong, but I don't think so. We'll know more if the next victim's name is Van Buren." I was trying to be as polite as possible. "What about the index card? What'd it say?"
"Strange thing about that," said Coates. "It was sort of the same, but different. This time, there were two of those funny sayings."
"What? What do you mean?" I asked. "Wait, let's get out of here."
Hal and I left Joe's City Bar. Out in the humid night air, the smell of garbage filled my nostrils. Fourteenth Street was only a couple of blocks away, so Hal and I headed over into the direction of Sunshine's last stand.
"IT DOESN'T HURT TO BE FRIENDLY
UP NEXT...GOOD THINGS COME IN SMALL PACKAGES"
Hal repeated the words pasted on the card. "That's damn odd," I said, "the two deaths are related, we know that, but how? What possible connection could there be between the Adams woman and Ms. Washington? And now, a bold declaration of more to come."
"They were both women," chimed in Coates. "They were both the same age and killed late at night, or more accurately, early morning. Both, if you don't mind me saying, were decent lookers. And...