Misty River, page 2
The man’s head was closest to the door, and his feet rested on the opened toilet. He wore a beige shirt, blue Levi pants, a brown belt, white socks, and brown lace-up shoes. Massey guessed the victim was about six feet five inches tall, an older, wiry-framed man, his graying hair stained blood red. His face was painted in blood, making it difficult to discern his features. But when he bent down to make a closer inspection, Massey recognized Frank Amoia’s dark eyes, long nose, razor-sharp cheekbones, and jutting chin. The body was still flaccid and warm to the touch. Mr. Amoia hadn’t been dead for long.
Massey straightened up and ran a chubby hand over his nearly bald head. “I swear, as God is my witness, I’ll catch the bastard who did this.”
He zeroed in on Frank’s pants pocket. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
His sergeant replied, “I’m looking at it now.”
“His front pants pocket is inside out,” said Massey.
“Well, if nothing else, we have a motive: greed,” replied the
Sergeant.
Massey’s eyes were drawn to a dime floating in the blood. He sarcastically commented, “I guess money bags didn’t need it. Call the medical examiner’s office. That’s a wrap on the suspicious death call. We now have a verified murder, the likes of which I have never witnessed before.”
The Leigh County Medical Examiner, Dr. Daniel Smith, arrived at thirty minutes past eight with his investigators. The doctor’s external examination of the victim’s body revealed that Amoia had been repeatedly stabbed in the torso, in addition to the sharp-force trauma to the throat. The cause of death, pending a complete autopsy, appeared to have been the severing of the carotid arteries.
“Here’s something you might find interesting,” the doctor pointed out. “It appears the victim was still alive when the assailant stabbed him in his stomach and chest. The angles of the stab wounds suggest they were inflicted after the victim’s throat was cut as he lay dying on the floor. I suspect the killer wanted to be sure the victim was dead before he left.”
Massey quipped, “There’s nothing like a goal-oriented killer on the loose. Can you estimate the time of death?”
“Yes. But I need time to take the victim’s body temperature.”
Doctor Smith made a small incision in the upper right abdomen and passed the thermometer into Amoia’s liver tissue. Forensic doctors use the standard cooling curve: hours since death=98.6-corpse core temperature/1.5, to estimate the time of death.
He said, “Considering this victim’s body temperature, lack of rigor mortis and livor mortis, I estimate the time of death between seven and seven thirty.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
“Unless you need anything further, we’ll take the body to the morgue.”
Now it was left to Massey to inform the widow. God, how he hated that part of the job.
Deputy Gates shouted, “Detective, you better check this out before you leave.”
Massey walked behind the service counter through a hallway to the storage area and into a pantry filled with baking supplies. Gates and an evidence technician were both pointing to an object.
“What are you looking at?” asked Massey.
“You won’t believe it, but a crockpot is hidden behind sacks of flour and sugar, stuffed with fifty thousand dollars wrapped in money straps,” replied Gates.
“In this business, nothing surprises me.” Massey shrugged and said, “I should have been a baker.”
Gates asked, “Why would Mr. Amoia hide money?”
“Either he hated banks or taxes, or perhaps both. Let me ask you a question.”
Gates answered, “Sure.”
“Why are you two jokers walking on bloody bootprints that I assume belong to the murderer?”
Gates glared at his shoes’ blood-stained soles, and blurted out, “Oh, shit!”
“Take a video of the pantry and seize the crockpot and money. This room is a fucking mess. It appears the murderer missed out on the fifty thousand dollars. The question is why the killer picked the pantry to search for the money in the flour and sugar sacks.”
Gates asked, “I wonder who knew about the money?”
Massey responded, “When we figure that out, we will have our killer. I’m on my way to inform Mrs. Amoia that her husband has been murdered. I’ll ask her who knew about the money. Perhaps she can tell us who murdered her husband.”
Massey was determined to find justice for Frank and bring his killer to account. The rain continued to pour outside, mirroring the storm of emotions brewing within Massey as he delved deeper into the investigation.
CHAPTER 3
Cannoli
March 4, 1985, Monday morning
Aman sat at the oversized conference table in the office library, studying his trial notebook. His sharkskin, charcoal-colored suit coat was draped on the back of his chair, his white poplin dress shirtsleeves were rolled up, the button at his neck was undone, and the knot in his handmade Italian tie lay loosened at his throat. He had a look on his face like he wore when he played chess.
Movie star good looking, he stands tall enough, is dark, and solid. His chiseled features are accentuated by a strong jawline and piercing, intelligent hazel eyes that seem to hold a hint of mystery. With his perfectly styled black hair parted on the right, he eludes an air of sophistication, confidence, and quick wit. His name happens to be Moretti. Blake Moretti.
Blake’s family had immigrated from the southern province of Calabria. Like most southern Italians, they valued loyalty, a strong work ethic, and respect for elders, traits that helped them become successful. Calabrians are strong, rugged, and hard-headed—testa tosta, as they were called in Italy. Their stubbornness wasn’t malicious. It was a part of their character that made them tenacious. They didn’t give up. Blake Moretti and his parents are no exception.
Blake grew up in a working-class Italian American neighborhood. In Blake’s view, the things we cannot control define life. We are shaped by the values we learn from our parents, the neighborhood we grow up in, the people we interact with, and the religious and philosophical views we are taught. This was also true for Moretti.
The most prominent case of his young career was just a week away. He sued a surgeon whose negligent conduct led to the tragic death of a patient during a routine surgical procedure.
There was a knock on the library door. Blake’s legal secretary, Susan, entered the room and said, “Blake, the Sheriff, has issued an update regarding the ‘suspicious death’ report at Amoia’s bakery.”
Gripping a Montblanc fountain pen in his right hand between his fingers, resting his other hand on a hardbound copy of Black’s Law Dictionary, he looked up at Susan. He asked, “What’s the latest?”
My boyfriend, a crime beat reporter for the Misty River News, told me that the Sheriff was keeping a tight lid on the situation and that the “suspicious death” was actually a robbery gone wrong.
“Are you fucking kidding? Does the Sheriff know who murdered Mr. Amoia?”
“Apparently not. The Sheriff offered a twenty-five thousand dollar reward during his press conference for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer.”
It’s hard to believe Frankie, the baker, was murdered. Blake gave Italians nicknames. It was what Italians did growing up in New York. Blake referred to his barber, Joe Vito, as “Joey, the barber.” Likewise, he called Anthony Netti, who owned the neighborhood meat market, “Tony, the butcher.” The nicknaming expressed respect.
All he could think about was Frank Amoia. He thought about the times he’d swung by to grab a loaf of Italian bread because he wouldn’t eat the imitation Italian bread sold at the local supermarket. Sometimes, he’d order a shot of espresso or a Campari soda, along with one of Frank’s cannoli. If Frank wasn’t too busy, he’d sit with Blake and share stories about growing up in Brooklyn.
Blake listened to Amoia’s stories reminding him of his grandfather, who often sat on the porch after Sunday mass, biting on a dead cigar while sharing stories about life in Italy and what it was like coming from the ‘Old Country’ and living in America.
Blake hadn’t forgotten his grandfather’s stories about prejudice. Those stories, and the bullying he’d endured, had made him a fighter. Blake often listened to his grandfather tell stories about labor struggles, nativist hostility, and virulent prejudice commonplace in the late nineteenth century.
By the late nineteenth century in America, growing numbers of Italians had been brought in to replace other labor groups. Thousands of Italians arrived in New Orleans each year. Many settled in the French Quarter, which by the twentieth century had a section known as “Little Sicily.”
During that time, racist theories circulated in the press that “Mediterranean” types were inferior to northern Europeans. Anti-immigrant groups sprang up across the county. The Ku Klux Klan membership increased. Catholic churches were vandalized and burned, and Italians were attacked by mobs.
The bloodiest attack on Italians occurred before Blake was born, but he’d heard about it. It was one of his grandfather’s often told stories, a lesson he wanted to be sure the boy learned.
In 1890, the New Orleans police chief was shot to death. Mass arrests of local Italian Americans and Italian immigrants quickly followed the murder. The mayor ordered the police to scour the entire neighborhood and arrest every Italian they encountered. More than one hundred Italian Americans were arrested and falsely blamed for the murder, most of whom had to be released for lack of evidence.
Ultimately, nineteen Italian Americans and immigrants were charged with murder or as accessories and held without bail. Nine of the accused Italians were tried in 1891. There were six not guilty verdicts and three mistrials, because the jurors could not agree on a verdict. The remaining ten accused Italians never had their day in court. Just one day later, before any of them were freed, a mob of ten thousand people, including prominent citizens, broke into the jail, dragged eleven Italian Americans and Italian immigrants out of their cells, and lynched them. The eight remaining Italians escaped the lynching by hiding inside the prison. It was the largest mass lynching in American history.
Moretti wasn’t born yet. But that prejudice became a part of American culture. While the lynching by mobs of bullies has stopped, discrimination against ethnic and racial groups still lingers.
Blake grew up surrounded by the same ignorant prejudices that afflicted Italians in the 1890s. It was common for Blake to be referred to as “Guinea” or “Wop,” contemptuous terms for a person of Italian descent. Then there were the occasions bullies physically attacked him just for being Italian. When bullies picked a fight with Blake or his friends, he rarely avoided them.
He never forgot his grandfather’s stories about prejudice and hatred directed against Italians or his own experiences. It was Moretti’s experiences that inspired him to become a prosecutor.
Blake was raised Catholic, believing God had a plan for everyone. Amoia devoted his life to raising his family and serving customers. Suddenly, Frank Amoia was brutally murdered. It made Blake wonder, What kind of plan was that? Why would a benevolent God allow such a heinous act to occur?
Blake does not know what fate has in store for him. Over time, he realized his question about God’s plan was misguided. Blake would become a prosecutor and pursue justice for his friend in two years. Justice would become his primary focus, overshadowing any contemplation of divine intervention. At the end of the day, it was Blake’s plan that would matter, not God’s.
CHAPTER 4
Money, It’s A Crime
March 2, 1985, Saturday afternoon
Homicide Detectives Bob Massey and Ann Wilson arrived around noon at the home of the murdered victim, Frank Amoia. Feeling a heavy weight on his shoulders, Massey took a deep breath as he approached the front door and rang the bell. The door creaked open, revealing an older woman.
“Mrs. Amoia?” Detective Massey asked gently. His voice filled with empathy. “I’m Detective Bob Massey with the Leigh County Sheriff’s Office, and this is my partner, Detective Ann Wilson. May we come in?”
Mary observed the grim faces of the detectives. She sensed something terrible had happened to Frank. She nodded, “Please come in,” her voice barely above a whisper. “Is Frank okay? Did something bad happen to him?” She began to search his face for answers.
She led them into the living room and gestured to a worn-out brown leather recliner. Detective Massey was unaware the recliner was Frank’s favorite chair. The chair wasn’t anything to brag about. But all Frank cared about was that it was comfortable, and it was the place he would often relax after standing on his feet all day, watching his favorite evening show, Gunsmoke.
Detective Massey accepted her invitation and lowered himself onto the chair. Instantly, he felt a sinking sensation as the seat cushion gave way beneath him, as if he had unknowingly stepped into the void left by the victim’s absence. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut, intensifying his quest to find justice for Mrs. Amoia and her husband.
As Detective Massey informed Mrs. Amoia of her husband’s murder, Detective Wilson sat beside her on the sofa opposite Detective Massey, ready to comfort her. Mrs. Amoia could sense that they cared for her and were trustworthy.
“This is never easy for me, Mrs. Amoia. After being called out this morning to investigate a “suspicious death” at the bakery, we found Frank dead.”
The tragic news visibly shook Mrs. Amoia. Her eyes filled with tears, and her lip began to tremble. Detective Wilson held her hand, consoling her.
“My God. It feels like I have been struck by a freight train. I don’t understand why anyone would want to harm Frank. Everyone loved him.”
“Mrs. Amoia, I know it is not a good time to talk about this, but it appears your husband’s murderer was after his money. We must learn as much as possible about business operations. It may help us solve the murder.”
“I’ll do my best. Frank carried two hundred dollars in his pocket every morning to set up the cash register. He would have given the money to whoever robbed him if asked. It is incomprehensible anyone would murder him. My God.”
“I figured as much. We found the pantry ransacked. Sugar and flour sacks were broken open and dumped on the floor. A deputy searched the room and found fifty thousand dollars stuffed in a crockpot, wrapped in currency straps, tucked behind the flour and sugar sacks. We believe whoever murdered Frank suspected the money was hidden in flour and sugar sacks. I was hoping you could identify the person or persons who may have had that knowledge.”
“I don’t know anything about fifty thousand dollars.”
“I understand. But here’s the thing: Frank’s killer knew he had a lot of cash hidden in the bakery. Did you know your husband hid money?”
“No. Frank managed the money matters. Frank and Sonny Calo were business partners. They kept me in the dark when it came to finances. I find it strange that you asked me that question. Frank repeatedly told me he was tired of the bakery business in the past few months and wanted to sell and move to Florida. He told me Sonny was willing to buy our interest in the bakery.”
“When was the last time Frank discussed the buyout?”
“Frank discussed it with me before leaving for work this morning. He was more determined than ever to sell the business and move. I sensed Frank was under a lot of pressure to sell.”
“That’s interesting. Can you tell me what was said?”
“I told him I was worried about finances and leaving our friends.”
“What was Frank’s response to your concern?”
“That’s what’s strange. The buyout money Sonny promised to pay was substantial, and Frank assured me we would be financially sound.”
“Was the bakery business that lucrative?”
“I certainly wasn’t complaining. After Sonny became a business partner, we expanded operations and sustained an excellent cash flow.”
Detective Wilson asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to kill Frank?”
“No, as I already mentioned, everyone loved him.”
“Sonny Calo, the mob boss? Do you think Calo had anything to do with murdering Frank?” Wilson asked.
“No. They were very close.”
“Do you know anyone else, including employees, who knew Frank stashed money in the bakery?” asked Wilson.
“Frank and I employed several people. Frank did the baking. He left for work at four-thirty in the morning. By five, he started to bake and set up shop. Frank worked the counter until the two women employees arrived at nine. Another young man, Joey Fleming, did much of the grunt work, unloading delivery trucks and stocking the bakery supplies. There is no reason to believe anyone other than Frank and Joey Fleming knew about the money. The pantry is out of sight and off-limits to customers. Only Frank and Joey had permission to enter the supply room. On one occasion, I recall, Joey mentioned he was surprised the bakery business made so much money. He suggested he should become a baker. I never gave that comment any thought at the time. Looking back, perhaps I should have.”
Detective Massey said, “I guess hindsight is a great tool. What do you know about Joey Fleming?”
“Not a lot. I know he dropped out of high school and lived near the bakery with his mother and her boyfriend for a while. The mother’s name is Valerie. I don’t recall the boyfriend’s name.
“He began working for us a couple of years ago. The few times I was around Joey Fleming, he was polite. He was sometimes strapped for cash, and Frank would advance him money whenever the kid asked.”
“Joey didn’t like his mother’s boyfriend. According to him, the boyfriend mooched off his mother and was abusive. I heard stories the boyfriend was an alcoholic. Joey didn’t get along with the guy and moved in with his girlfriend.”
The Detectives gave Mrs. Amoia their business cards and promised to stay in touch.
Wilson drove, and she didn’t hesitate to prematurely solve the case. “So, aside from Frank, Joey Fleming was the only person with access to the pantry. Looks like we found our killer, Joey Fleming.”
Massey straightened up and ran a chubby hand over his nearly bald head. “I swear, as God is my witness, I’ll catch the bastard who did this.”
He zeroed in on Frank’s pants pocket. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
His sergeant replied, “I’m looking at it now.”
“His front pants pocket is inside out,” said Massey.
“Well, if nothing else, we have a motive: greed,” replied the
Sergeant.
Massey’s eyes were drawn to a dime floating in the blood. He sarcastically commented, “I guess money bags didn’t need it. Call the medical examiner’s office. That’s a wrap on the suspicious death call. We now have a verified murder, the likes of which I have never witnessed before.”
The Leigh County Medical Examiner, Dr. Daniel Smith, arrived at thirty minutes past eight with his investigators. The doctor’s external examination of the victim’s body revealed that Amoia had been repeatedly stabbed in the torso, in addition to the sharp-force trauma to the throat. The cause of death, pending a complete autopsy, appeared to have been the severing of the carotid arteries.
“Here’s something you might find interesting,” the doctor pointed out. “It appears the victim was still alive when the assailant stabbed him in his stomach and chest. The angles of the stab wounds suggest they were inflicted after the victim’s throat was cut as he lay dying on the floor. I suspect the killer wanted to be sure the victim was dead before he left.”
Massey quipped, “There’s nothing like a goal-oriented killer on the loose. Can you estimate the time of death?”
“Yes. But I need time to take the victim’s body temperature.”
Doctor Smith made a small incision in the upper right abdomen and passed the thermometer into Amoia’s liver tissue. Forensic doctors use the standard cooling curve: hours since death=98.6-corpse core temperature/1.5, to estimate the time of death.
He said, “Considering this victim’s body temperature, lack of rigor mortis and livor mortis, I estimate the time of death between seven and seven thirty.”
“Thanks, Doctor.”
“Unless you need anything further, we’ll take the body to the morgue.”
Now it was left to Massey to inform the widow. God, how he hated that part of the job.
Deputy Gates shouted, “Detective, you better check this out before you leave.”
Massey walked behind the service counter through a hallway to the storage area and into a pantry filled with baking supplies. Gates and an evidence technician were both pointing to an object.
“What are you looking at?” asked Massey.
“You won’t believe it, but a crockpot is hidden behind sacks of flour and sugar, stuffed with fifty thousand dollars wrapped in money straps,” replied Gates.
“In this business, nothing surprises me.” Massey shrugged and said, “I should have been a baker.”
Gates asked, “Why would Mr. Amoia hide money?”
“Either he hated banks or taxes, or perhaps both. Let me ask you a question.”
Gates answered, “Sure.”
“Why are you two jokers walking on bloody bootprints that I assume belong to the murderer?”
Gates glared at his shoes’ blood-stained soles, and blurted out, “Oh, shit!”
“Take a video of the pantry and seize the crockpot and money. This room is a fucking mess. It appears the murderer missed out on the fifty thousand dollars. The question is why the killer picked the pantry to search for the money in the flour and sugar sacks.”
Gates asked, “I wonder who knew about the money?”
Massey responded, “When we figure that out, we will have our killer. I’m on my way to inform Mrs. Amoia that her husband has been murdered. I’ll ask her who knew about the money. Perhaps she can tell us who murdered her husband.”
Massey was determined to find justice for Frank and bring his killer to account. The rain continued to pour outside, mirroring the storm of emotions brewing within Massey as he delved deeper into the investigation.
CHAPTER 3
Cannoli
March 4, 1985, Monday morning
Aman sat at the oversized conference table in the office library, studying his trial notebook. His sharkskin, charcoal-colored suit coat was draped on the back of his chair, his white poplin dress shirtsleeves were rolled up, the button at his neck was undone, and the knot in his handmade Italian tie lay loosened at his throat. He had a look on his face like he wore when he played chess.
Movie star good looking, he stands tall enough, is dark, and solid. His chiseled features are accentuated by a strong jawline and piercing, intelligent hazel eyes that seem to hold a hint of mystery. With his perfectly styled black hair parted on the right, he eludes an air of sophistication, confidence, and quick wit. His name happens to be Moretti. Blake Moretti.
Blake’s family had immigrated from the southern province of Calabria. Like most southern Italians, they valued loyalty, a strong work ethic, and respect for elders, traits that helped them become successful. Calabrians are strong, rugged, and hard-headed—testa tosta, as they were called in Italy. Their stubbornness wasn’t malicious. It was a part of their character that made them tenacious. They didn’t give up. Blake Moretti and his parents are no exception.
Blake grew up in a working-class Italian American neighborhood. In Blake’s view, the things we cannot control define life. We are shaped by the values we learn from our parents, the neighborhood we grow up in, the people we interact with, and the religious and philosophical views we are taught. This was also true for Moretti.
The most prominent case of his young career was just a week away. He sued a surgeon whose negligent conduct led to the tragic death of a patient during a routine surgical procedure.
There was a knock on the library door. Blake’s legal secretary, Susan, entered the room and said, “Blake, the Sheriff, has issued an update regarding the ‘suspicious death’ report at Amoia’s bakery.”
Gripping a Montblanc fountain pen in his right hand between his fingers, resting his other hand on a hardbound copy of Black’s Law Dictionary, he looked up at Susan. He asked, “What’s the latest?”
My boyfriend, a crime beat reporter for the Misty River News, told me that the Sheriff was keeping a tight lid on the situation and that the “suspicious death” was actually a robbery gone wrong.
“Are you fucking kidding? Does the Sheriff know who murdered Mr. Amoia?”
“Apparently not. The Sheriff offered a twenty-five thousand dollar reward during his press conference for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer.”
It’s hard to believe Frankie, the baker, was murdered. Blake gave Italians nicknames. It was what Italians did growing up in New York. Blake referred to his barber, Joe Vito, as “Joey, the barber.” Likewise, he called Anthony Netti, who owned the neighborhood meat market, “Tony, the butcher.” The nicknaming expressed respect.
All he could think about was Frank Amoia. He thought about the times he’d swung by to grab a loaf of Italian bread because he wouldn’t eat the imitation Italian bread sold at the local supermarket. Sometimes, he’d order a shot of espresso or a Campari soda, along with one of Frank’s cannoli. If Frank wasn’t too busy, he’d sit with Blake and share stories about growing up in Brooklyn.
Blake listened to Amoia’s stories reminding him of his grandfather, who often sat on the porch after Sunday mass, biting on a dead cigar while sharing stories about life in Italy and what it was like coming from the ‘Old Country’ and living in America.
Blake hadn’t forgotten his grandfather’s stories about prejudice. Those stories, and the bullying he’d endured, had made him a fighter. Blake often listened to his grandfather tell stories about labor struggles, nativist hostility, and virulent prejudice commonplace in the late nineteenth century.
By the late nineteenth century in America, growing numbers of Italians had been brought in to replace other labor groups. Thousands of Italians arrived in New Orleans each year. Many settled in the French Quarter, which by the twentieth century had a section known as “Little Sicily.”
During that time, racist theories circulated in the press that “Mediterranean” types were inferior to northern Europeans. Anti-immigrant groups sprang up across the county. The Ku Klux Klan membership increased. Catholic churches were vandalized and burned, and Italians were attacked by mobs.
The bloodiest attack on Italians occurred before Blake was born, but he’d heard about it. It was one of his grandfather’s often told stories, a lesson he wanted to be sure the boy learned.
In 1890, the New Orleans police chief was shot to death. Mass arrests of local Italian Americans and Italian immigrants quickly followed the murder. The mayor ordered the police to scour the entire neighborhood and arrest every Italian they encountered. More than one hundred Italian Americans were arrested and falsely blamed for the murder, most of whom had to be released for lack of evidence.
Ultimately, nineteen Italian Americans and immigrants were charged with murder or as accessories and held without bail. Nine of the accused Italians were tried in 1891. There were six not guilty verdicts and three mistrials, because the jurors could not agree on a verdict. The remaining ten accused Italians never had their day in court. Just one day later, before any of them were freed, a mob of ten thousand people, including prominent citizens, broke into the jail, dragged eleven Italian Americans and Italian immigrants out of their cells, and lynched them. The eight remaining Italians escaped the lynching by hiding inside the prison. It was the largest mass lynching in American history.
Moretti wasn’t born yet. But that prejudice became a part of American culture. While the lynching by mobs of bullies has stopped, discrimination against ethnic and racial groups still lingers.
Blake grew up surrounded by the same ignorant prejudices that afflicted Italians in the 1890s. It was common for Blake to be referred to as “Guinea” or “Wop,” contemptuous terms for a person of Italian descent. Then there were the occasions bullies physically attacked him just for being Italian. When bullies picked a fight with Blake or his friends, he rarely avoided them.
He never forgot his grandfather’s stories about prejudice and hatred directed against Italians or his own experiences. It was Moretti’s experiences that inspired him to become a prosecutor.
Blake was raised Catholic, believing God had a plan for everyone. Amoia devoted his life to raising his family and serving customers. Suddenly, Frank Amoia was brutally murdered. It made Blake wonder, What kind of plan was that? Why would a benevolent God allow such a heinous act to occur?
Blake does not know what fate has in store for him. Over time, he realized his question about God’s plan was misguided. Blake would become a prosecutor and pursue justice for his friend in two years. Justice would become his primary focus, overshadowing any contemplation of divine intervention. At the end of the day, it was Blake’s plan that would matter, not God’s.
CHAPTER 4
Money, It’s A Crime
March 2, 1985, Saturday afternoon
Homicide Detectives Bob Massey and Ann Wilson arrived around noon at the home of the murdered victim, Frank Amoia. Feeling a heavy weight on his shoulders, Massey took a deep breath as he approached the front door and rang the bell. The door creaked open, revealing an older woman.
“Mrs. Amoia?” Detective Massey asked gently. His voice filled with empathy. “I’m Detective Bob Massey with the Leigh County Sheriff’s Office, and this is my partner, Detective Ann Wilson. May we come in?”
Mary observed the grim faces of the detectives. She sensed something terrible had happened to Frank. She nodded, “Please come in,” her voice barely above a whisper. “Is Frank okay? Did something bad happen to him?” She began to search his face for answers.
She led them into the living room and gestured to a worn-out brown leather recliner. Detective Massey was unaware the recliner was Frank’s favorite chair. The chair wasn’t anything to brag about. But all Frank cared about was that it was comfortable, and it was the place he would often relax after standing on his feet all day, watching his favorite evening show, Gunsmoke.
Detective Massey accepted her invitation and lowered himself onto the chair. Instantly, he felt a sinking sensation as the seat cushion gave way beneath him, as if he had unknowingly stepped into the void left by the victim’s absence. The realization hit him like a punch in the gut, intensifying his quest to find justice for Mrs. Amoia and her husband.
As Detective Massey informed Mrs. Amoia of her husband’s murder, Detective Wilson sat beside her on the sofa opposite Detective Massey, ready to comfort her. Mrs. Amoia could sense that they cared for her and were trustworthy.
“This is never easy for me, Mrs. Amoia. After being called out this morning to investigate a “suspicious death” at the bakery, we found Frank dead.”
The tragic news visibly shook Mrs. Amoia. Her eyes filled with tears, and her lip began to tremble. Detective Wilson held her hand, consoling her.
“My God. It feels like I have been struck by a freight train. I don’t understand why anyone would want to harm Frank. Everyone loved him.”
“Mrs. Amoia, I know it is not a good time to talk about this, but it appears your husband’s murderer was after his money. We must learn as much as possible about business operations. It may help us solve the murder.”
“I’ll do my best. Frank carried two hundred dollars in his pocket every morning to set up the cash register. He would have given the money to whoever robbed him if asked. It is incomprehensible anyone would murder him. My God.”
“I figured as much. We found the pantry ransacked. Sugar and flour sacks were broken open and dumped on the floor. A deputy searched the room and found fifty thousand dollars stuffed in a crockpot, wrapped in currency straps, tucked behind the flour and sugar sacks. We believe whoever murdered Frank suspected the money was hidden in flour and sugar sacks. I was hoping you could identify the person or persons who may have had that knowledge.”
“I don’t know anything about fifty thousand dollars.”
“I understand. But here’s the thing: Frank’s killer knew he had a lot of cash hidden in the bakery. Did you know your husband hid money?”
“No. Frank managed the money matters. Frank and Sonny Calo were business partners. They kept me in the dark when it came to finances. I find it strange that you asked me that question. Frank repeatedly told me he was tired of the bakery business in the past few months and wanted to sell and move to Florida. He told me Sonny was willing to buy our interest in the bakery.”
“When was the last time Frank discussed the buyout?”
“Frank discussed it with me before leaving for work this morning. He was more determined than ever to sell the business and move. I sensed Frank was under a lot of pressure to sell.”
“That’s interesting. Can you tell me what was said?”
“I told him I was worried about finances and leaving our friends.”
“What was Frank’s response to your concern?”
“That’s what’s strange. The buyout money Sonny promised to pay was substantial, and Frank assured me we would be financially sound.”
“Was the bakery business that lucrative?”
“I certainly wasn’t complaining. After Sonny became a business partner, we expanded operations and sustained an excellent cash flow.”
Detective Wilson asked, “Do you know anyone who would want to kill Frank?”
“No, as I already mentioned, everyone loved him.”
“Sonny Calo, the mob boss? Do you think Calo had anything to do with murdering Frank?” Wilson asked.
“No. They were very close.”
“Do you know anyone else, including employees, who knew Frank stashed money in the bakery?” asked Wilson.
“Frank and I employed several people. Frank did the baking. He left for work at four-thirty in the morning. By five, he started to bake and set up shop. Frank worked the counter until the two women employees arrived at nine. Another young man, Joey Fleming, did much of the grunt work, unloading delivery trucks and stocking the bakery supplies. There is no reason to believe anyone other than Frank and Joey Fleming knew about the money. The pantry is out of sight and off-limits to customers. Only Frank and Joey had permission to enter the supply room. On one occasion, I recall, Joey mentioned he was surprised the bakery business made so much money. He suggested he should become a baker. I never gave that comment any thought at the time. Looking back, perhaps I should have.”
Detective Massey said, “I guess hindsight is a great tool. What do you know about Joey Fleming?”
“Not a lot. I know he dropped out of high school and lived near the bakery with his mother and her boyfriend for a while. The mother’s name is Valerie. I don’t recall the boyfriend’s name.
“He began working for us a couple of years ago. The few times I was around Joey Fleming, he was polite. He was sometimes strapped for cash, and Frank would advance him money whenever the kid asked.”
“Joey didn’t like his mother’s boyfriend. According to him, the boyfriend mooched off his mother and was abusive. I heard stories the boyfriend was an alcoholic. Joey didn’t get along with the guy and moved in with his girlfriend.”
The Detectives gave Mrs. Amoia their business cards and promised to stay in touch.
Wilson drove, and she didn’t hesitate to prematurely solve the case. “So, aside from Frank, Joey Fleming was the only person with access to the pantry. Looks like we found our killer, Joey Fleming.”
