Misty River, page 1
Copyright © 2024 David Franceschelli.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner
without the written consent of the copyright owner, except for brief quotes in reviews.
To request permission, contact: David Franceschelli
Printed in the United States of America.
ISBN-paperback: 979-8-35093-014-6
ISBN-e-reader: 979-8-35093-015-3
IABN audiobook
First Hardback Edition 2023
Cover art design by Rachel Kelli
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and organizations are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by: BookBaby
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https://www.davidfranceschelli.com
To all those who invite storytellers into their lives, if only for a moment. Without you, stories would go untold and be lost forever. Thank you for allowing me to share my story with you.
Table of Contents
EPIGRAPH
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
Chapter 1. Cold Blooded Murder
Chapter 2. A Suspicious Death
Chapter 3. Cannoli
Chapter 4. Money, It’s A Crime
Chapter 5. Pointing The Finger
Chapter 6. Rejection
PART TWO
Chapter 7. Rape
PART THREE
Chapter 8. The Prosecutor
Chapter 9. Just The Facts
Chapter 10. Hear My Voice
Chapter 11. Survivor
Chapter 12. Hardball
Chapter 13. Do Me A Favor
Chapter 14. Do I Look Like A Murderer
Chapter 15. Indictment
Chapter 16. Arraignment
Chapter 17. Plan B
Chapter 18. Crime Scenes Tell A Story
Chapter 19. The Man Who Talked Too Much
Chapter 20. Deal Or No Deal
Chapter 21. Calm Before The Storm
PART FOUR
Chapter 22. The Rape Trial
Chapter 23. The Prosecutor’s Case
Chapter 24. The Defendant’s Side Of The Story
Chapter 25. He Said-She Said
Chapter 26. The Murder Trial
Chapter 27. Two Sides To A Story
Chapter 28. The Reckoning
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
EPIGRAPH
“The world is dark, and light is precious.
Come closer, dear reader.
You must trust me.
I am telling you a story.”
—Kate DiCamillo
PROLOGUE
There is something warm and welcoming about small towns, which are often associated with tranquility and safety. Yet they can be sinister, with danger lurking all around.
Every murder happens somewhere, and this one happened in the small town of Misty River, in Leigh County, New York, located on the banks of the great Misty River. The Misty River snakes around the outskirts of the town, dividing it into two vastly different places.
As the sun rises, light filters through solitary clouds reflecting off the water, while wisps of mist drift across the distant horizon. The splashing and honking of geese can be heard, and ducks waddle on the moving current, indifferent to the fishermen who gather on the banks. As the sun sets in the evening, the fishing boats return to shore, and the dark river becomes a mirror.
At night, the Misty River becomes a forbidden place, ghostly gray, surrounded by a dark forest that exudes a musty, pungent smell from the deadfall and leaves. A single misstep can swallow a person whole.
The murder that occurred there remained unsolved for two years until a brutal rape brought a warm twist to the cold case.
PART ONE
“I’ve just got to get a message to you.
Hold on, hold on.
One more hour and my life will be through.
Hold on, hold on.”
—Bee Gees. “I’ve Gotta Get a Message to You.”
Idea. Atco Records, 1968.
CHAPTER 1
Cold Blooded Murder
March 2, 1985, Saturday morning
The date was Saturday, March 2, 1985. The time was around seven o’clock in the morning. The sun was hiding, and heavy rain appeared hovering over the nearby Misty River. It was the perfect day for a murder.
The town’s quaint Italian bakery customarily filled the morning air with the lingering scent of freshly baked bread and pastries. But today, that comforting aroma was tainted by the metallic tang of blood.
In the peaceful and serene town of Misty River, a merciless, cold-blooded murder stunned its residents. The news of this violent act quickly permeated the tight-knit community, spreading like wildfire and leaving its inhabitants in a state of profound disbelief. The tranquility they once cherished was shattered, replaced by an overwhelming sense of fear and confusion. They grappled to comprehend how such a heinous crime could have taken place within the confines of their seemingly idyllic small town.
Frank Amoia, the beloved owner of the town’s Italian bakery, was found dead, lying in a pool of blood on the restroom floor. A man had raised his right hand, clutching a knife, and slashed Frank Amoia’s throat from ear to ear.
In 1950, Frank and his wife, Mary, moved to Misty River from Brooklyn, New York, and opened an Italian bakery in the historic Crossman building. The bakery was, and still is, on Lansing Street, on the south side of downtown. The brick paver-laid street is lined with Federal and Queen Anne-style buildings. For thirty-five years, the bakery was a local treasure.
Frank routinely arrived at the bakery at five in the morning to prepare for the seven o’clock opening. That morning, he and his wife got up before dawn as usual. When he arrived downstairs, she had coffee ready, and breakfast was on the table.
“Mary, have you made a decision?”
“Are you referring to selling the bakery and moving to Florida?”
“You know darn well what I am referring to. You’re stalling. We both know the bakery business is grueling. Besides, aren’t you sick of the snow and freezing winters?”
“I get it. You sound like a broken record. I told you I need more time. I am concerned we don’t have the money to make that move.”
“I’ll have the money. It won’t be a problem. I talked to Sonny, and he agreed to buy our interest in the business.”
“Frank, I realize Sonny Calo is your best friend and business partner, and you are godfather to his oldest son. But Sonny doesn’t know a damn thing about running a bakery. Sonny is a mob boss. The business would fold the minute you and I walked out the door.
“You know how much I love you. But it scares me to think about selling the business and moving to Florida. We have it good here. Misty River is where all our friends live.”
“I don’t know how else to say it. I’ll have the money. We will make new friends.”
Frank talked a bit longer than usual. Realizing he was late, he hurried out the door. After hopping into his 1980 green Volkswagen Beetle, he headed to the bakery. At 4:30 in the morning, there was no traffic. He drove the empty streets in silence, his favorite part of the day.
The moment he unlocked the bakery door, Frank felt dread wash over him. He was unaware the time had run out to say goodbye to his loved ones and atone for his sins.
Shortly before seven, the bakery was ready for the day’s customers. He flipped the “Closed” sign hanging in the window to “Open” and went to the back restroom to replenish the paper towels, leaving the front of the store unattended. Frank hummed a tune as he worked, unaware of the danger lurking outside.
Outside the bakery on Lansing Street, a man in a black leather jacket, saggy jeans, and worn cowboy boots concealed himself behind an ornamental lamppost, staring into the display window, watching every move Frank made, waiting for the right moment to strike. When he saw Frank enter the restroom, he slipped out from behind the lamppost and made his move.
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped into the cozy bakery. He locked the door behind him, flipped the sign from “Open” to “Closed,” and scanned the shop, looking for his target. As the man approached the restroom in the back of the bakery, he peeked inside. He saw Frank’s back, crept up behind him, and pulled a Buck hunting knife from a leather sheath hanging from his belt. Before Frank could move, the man wrapped his left arm around his body and arms.
Frank’s instinct was to fight back, but he couldn’t move. With his right hand still grasping the knife, the man reached around, pulled Frank’s head back, and slit his throat in one swift motion. Blood sprayed everywhere. The wound deepened from one ear to the other, then faded. As Frank collapsed on the ground, covered in blood and unable to scream, he gasped for air. The man clutched the sharp knife in his right hand, leaned over Frank’s twitching body, and whispered in his ear, “Sorry pal, nothing personal,” plunging the instrument of death several times into Frank’s chest for good measure.
He rolled Frank onto his side, leaning him against the door, removed a wad of cash from Frank’s blood-stained pants pocket, then stood up and stuffed it into the right front pocket of his jeans.
Trying to rid himself of guilt, he began washing his bloody hands and murder weapon in the sink, but soon realized his clothes and boots wer
Desperate for money, before fleeing the murder scene, he made one more stop. It was worth the risk of being caught red-handed. As he made a mad dash to the pantry, bloody bootprints followed. There were thousands of dollars in the pantry waiting to be stolen. The money mattered, and he wasn’t leaving without it. He ransacked the pantry, looking for the stash, but all he found was flour and sugar.
With anger coursing through his veins, he stormed out of the pantry, hastily unlocked the front door, and wiped his fingerprints from the door handle, leaving behind a dead baker, a scene of horror, bloody bootprints, and the one clue that would, over time, identify him as the killer.
Unbeknownst to the killer, hidden in the shadows of the alley across the street, a lone figure watched the man covered in blood exit the bakery. His heart pounded in his chest, and fear gripped him, knowing that he had become an unintended witness to what could only be a heinous crime. He knew he had to remain silent to evade the killer’s notice. He had no desire to become involved. But deep down, he also knew that he held a crucial piece of information that could eventually lead to the identification of the killer.
CHAPTER 2
A Suspicious Death
March 2, 1985, Saturday morning
At 7:35 a.m., when Robby Benton stopped by the bakery, he was surprised the glass door displayed the “Closed” sign. Frank always opened it at seven, so when Robby tried the handle, he was surprised the door wasn’t locked. Frank never left the door unlocked when the bakery was closed. Robby curiously peered through the glass window, but there was no sign of Frank. So, Robby entered the store, calling Frank’s name. No one responded. He searched for Frank and saw a trail of bloody bootprints leading from the front door to the restroom.
Blood was oozing beneath the closed restroom door. Panicked, he called “Frank? Frank!” His brain couldn’t keep up with what his eyes were seeing. His hands trembled, and his knees buckled. He decided to call the sheriff.
At 7:45 a.m., Officer Harvey Gates, a seven-year Leigh County Sheriff’s Office veteran, was driving Lansing Street on routine patrol. He planned to stop and grab a coffee and, hopefully, a free Italian pastry at Amoia’s Bakery when his radio phone lit up.
Gates routinely stopped at the bakery under the pretense of checking on Mr. Amoia. He was a sucker for the homemade cannoli, and Amoia never charged him for it, throwing in a complimentary cup of coffee. Half-heartedly, he refused, but Amoia always insisted.
Now Gates flicked on his blue lights and siren, turned around, and sped towards the bakery.
Robby was standing outside, visibly shaken.
“Sir, take a deep breath and tell me what happened.”
“I stopped by for my usual coffee and a pastry. Mr. Amoia always displayed the “Open” sign when he unlocked the door. But the “Closed” sign was displayed this morning, and the door unlocked.
“I went inside, but no one was in sight, so I called Frank’s name. He didn’t answer and I couldn’t see him anywhere, so I started to look for him. That’s when I noticed a trail of blood leading to the restroom. The restroom door was closed, and blood was seeping out. I panicked because I thought Mr. Amoia might be in there, so I used the bakery phone to call you guys.”
Gates’s educated guess was that Amoia was in the restroom. “Would you mind waiting in my cruiser and writing everything you just told me? I’m gonna take a look around. I’ll have another officer follow up with you.”
Gates got on the radio. Deputies and rescue units were at the scene in minutes.
At 7:48 a.m., homicide Detective Bob Massey of the Leigh County Sheriff’s Office shoveled four teaspoons of sugar into his black coffee.
Two hundred and fifty thousand people live in Leigh County. Massey joked he would never be out of a job in law enforcement. Without skipping a beat, his number was called.
Sergeant Cain interrupted his first sip. “I just got a call about a “suspicious death” at Amoia’s bakery. I’m assigning you the investigation, and I need you out there now.”
“Any details?”
“A customer saw blood on the floor, but no one was around.”
“It never fails. The first call always comes before I’ve had my coffee.”
“Take your coffee with you and bring the new camcorder. The sheriff insists we use it. He doesn’t want any flak from the city council for spending all that money on the damn thing.”
Massey had been investigating homicide scenes for two decades, but no matter how hard-boiled an investigator got, there was always one murder scene that would be too brutal to forget. It is common for homicide investigators to try and convince themselves that the next crime scene couldn’t be worse than the one they’re working on. But that is nothing more than wishful thinking. Inevitably, it gets worse. That day had arrived for Massey.
With his coffee in one hand and the camcorder in the other, he headed to the crime scene that would haunt him for years to come.
A short time later, Massey met Gates at the closed restroom door.
“So, whatcha got?”
“The witness is a frequent bakery customer,” he said, reporting Robby’s statement.
“Did he say if he noticed anyone else in or around the store?”
“Not really, but after he called the sheriff’s office, he saw a homeless-looking guy sitting on the bench across the street. He told the deputies the guy walked off towards the alley.”
“So, we’re disqualifying the guy as a potential witness because he looks like he’s homeless? Where’s the guy now?”
“He’s gone.”
Massey shook his head. As usual, half the sheriff’s department had arrived at the crime scene, but no one thought it was necessary to interview a guy who could have been the perpetrator or, at the very least, an eyewitness.
Outside the bakery, a bunch of recent Sheriff Academy graduates were socializing. “Nice day for a murder,” Massey said.
“Gosh, Detective, do you think that’s what happened?”
“I wouldn’t know, since none of you jokers bothered to open the restroom door.”
“We tried, sir,” an eager young recruit said, “but something is blocking it. We didn’t want to mess up the crime scene. So, we’re awaiting instructions on how to proceed.”
“And you never thought of getting your toolbox and removing the door and frame?”
“Sir, that’s a great idea.”
Massey turned to Gates, who had come up behind him. “The department paid a fortune for this new video camcorder. Does anybody know how to work it? I want the crime scene investigation recorded.”
One of the young deputies grabbed the camcorder and started filming the technicians removing the door. He pointed the recorder into the restroom when the door was removed. Disturbed at what he saw, he almost dropped the camera. He had never seen anything so ghastly. A lifeless body was covered in blood on the floor, lying in a grotesque pose reminiscent of a slasher movie. It sent shivers down his spine.
Massey began to inspect the room. It was so small you couldn’t swing a cat in it, with just enough room for a toilet, sink, paper dispenser, metal trash basket, and one dead man. Massey, a seasoned homicide detective who thought he’d seen everything, was rattled. The man’s throat had been slit from ear to ear. His nearly severed head, body, and clothing were all soaked in blood. Massey turned away in disgust.
As Detective Massey surveyed the room, an unsettling feeling washed over him. The Detective meticulously observed every minute detail of the crime scene. It became evident that this was no ordinary murder, but rather a malevolent act driven by an evil, twisted mind. The room itself seemed to mirror the chaos of the crime.
