Opening Day: A Matt Davis Mystery

By Joe Perrone Jr.

Opening Day is a 2012 B.R.A.G. Medallion Honoree.
Girls are coming through an Upstate New York fishing village, but they aren't all coming out--alive!
Out fishing, Police Chief Matt Davis stumbles upon the remains of a murder victim, killed approximately six months earlier. With no evidence, no ID, and no clues, it's up to Matt to not only find the murderer, but to discover the victim's identity.
About The Author: Joe Perrone Jr. worked as a sportswriter for the Passaic-Clifton, NJ, Herald News, as well as a freelance advertising copywriter. Joe was also a professional fly-fishing guide for ten years in the Catskill Mountains of New York, and has had several fly-fishing short stories published in the Mid Atlantic Fly Fishing Guide. Both Opening Day and Twice Bitten are actually set in Roscoe, NY, the small Upstate New York fishing village where Joe was a guide. is perhaps best known for his Matt Davis Mystery Series, which includes As the Twig is Bent (the first in the series), Opening Day, and Twice Bitten (the most recent in the series). Joe's first novel, Escaping Innocence (A Story of Awakening), was published in 2008, and is an evocative coming-of-age novel set in the turbulent '60s.
In addition to his four novels, Joe has authored two non-fiction works, A "Real" Man's Guide to Divorce (First, you bend over and...), published in 2009 and Gone Fishin' with Kids (How to Take Your Kid Fishing and Still be Friends), co-authored with Manny Luftglass, and published in 1997.
A fourth Matt Davis Mystery, Broken Promises, is scheduled for publication in May 2013.
Opening Day was recently awarded an Indie B.R.A.G. Medallion, and in 2011, As The Twig Is Bent was translated into Portuguese as Pau que nasce torto by Rafa Lombardino.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joe Perrone Jr.
• Release date: Apr 2, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452346335

Joe Perrone Jr.

Joe Perrone Jr is an author whose diverse background includes a stint as a sports writer with a prominent New Jersey newspaper, the Herald News, and several years spent freelancing as an advertising copy writer.  He also has had short stories published in the Mid-Atlantic Fly Fishing Guide. In addition to his writing, he spent ten years as a professional fly fishing guide on the historic Beaverkill River in New York's Catskill Mountains.  Nearby Roscoe, known as “Trout Town USA," serves as the setting for Joe's last four Matt Davis Mysteries: Opening Day, Twice Bitten, Broken Promises, and Deadly Ransom.  Roscoe is a place to which Joe returns as often as possible to fish his favorite waters and visit with long-time friends.  The first book in the series, As the Twig is Bent, is set in Manhattan. Joe has also authored two non-fiction books, Gone Fishin’ with Kids (How to Take Your Kid Fishing And Still Be Friends)and A “Real” Man’s Guide to Divorce (First, You Bend Over And . . .), as well as a coming-of-age novel called Escaping Innocence: A Story Of Awakening. In 2014, Joe formed his own independent publishing/consulting company, Escarpment Press, which provides various publishing services to “indie” authors, including editing, formatting, and cover design.  Each year, Escarpment Press publishes one or two books under its imprint. The most recent release was Manhattan North Narcotics: Chasing the Kilo Fairy, by former NYPD detective Jake McNicholas. In addition to his writing, Joe enjoys hiking, cooking (and eating), listening to music, fly fishing, and fly tying.  He and his wife, Becky, have lived in Hendersonville for nearly 20 years. His websites are: www.joeperronejr.com and www.escarpmentpress.weebly.com. His weekly blog can be found at: www.joetheauthor.wordpress.com.  Readers may reach him via email at: [e-mail].

Book preview

Chapter 1

April 1

The room is pitch black, and the air has a fetid quality to it, warm and unmoving—like death. There are muffled female screams reverberating throughout the room, accompanied by sounds of someone struggling. My arms and legs are tied with women’s undergarments to the four opposing posts of a huge Victorian bed. Restrained as I am, I watch helplessly, as strobe-like images of a hand holding a knife appear, then disappear, then re-appear before my disbelieving eyes. The handle of the knife is mother-of-pearl, and the blade appears razor sharp, reflecting little pin points of light as it sweeps past my face. I strain mightily against the nylon and cotton manacles that bind me, but my efforts are of no use; I’m unable to move.

With each pass, the knife moves ever closer, and I’m reminded of Edgar Allan Poe’s The Pit and the Pendulum. As I toss my head from side to side, the surgical steel blade makes one more pass, and just catches a stray hair on the side of my neck. An even louder scream pierces the still night air, only this time the voice isn’t a woman’s voice at all. It has a much more guttural quality to it, deeper pitched, more masculine even. It sounds familiar, yet I can’t be sure who it belongs to. But wait; it’s coming to me. Now, at last, I recognize the voice; I should—it’s mine. And, I begin to struggle even more furiously, because I know what’s coming. And, with that recognition and the memory that accompanies it, I realize why I’m screaming; and I do the only thing I can to make it stop—I wake up.

Glancing over at the Little Ben alarm clock on my night table, I see that it’s nearly six a.m. I’m drenched in perspiration. Sitting up slowly, so I don’t wake Val, I slide my right hand automatically to the left side of my neck, running my fingers lightly over the scar that runs diagonally about four inches from the outside of my collarbone down toward my Adam’s apple. It’s not a particularly obtrusive scar, but the memory it evokes is overpowering.

It’s been nearly two years since that night, the night that changed my life forever. Although the dream doesn’t come as often now as it did in the beginning (nearly every night the first year), when it does come, the details are just as clear, and its impact just as devastating.

I’m Matt Davis, former NYPD homicide detective. In my former life, I worked out of the Tenth Precinct in the Chelsea District of Manhattan. Against the advice of my ex-partner, Chris Freitag, I had gone alone into an apartment building to check on a female member of our detective squad with whom we’d lost contact that evening. I had half expected to find her asleep in front of her television set, but instead I had surprised a serial killer doing his damnedest to add the lovely Rita Valdez to his growing list of victims. In the ensuing struggle, the Chat Room Rapist, as he later came to be known, had slashed me across the neck with a knife, partly severing my carotid artery in the process. My injury nearly killed me, and put me in a coma that lasted almost four days. Unlike a cat that has used up eight of its nine lives, but doesn’t know any better than to continue confronting fate, I considered the event as a kind of warning, and put in papers for early retirement as soon as I left the hospital.

Valdez, on the other hand, didn’t have my option of early retirement, and although she suffered numerous cuts and bruises, and a badly crushed windpipe (it kept her from speaking for almost a month), returned to active duty after a brief leave of absence. I wonder whether she, too, is haunted by dreams of her narrow escape. We were both lucky, and although our bodies have healed exceptionally well, the emotional wounds each of us suffered likely never will. But, we go on, each of in our own way; that’s what cops do.

I slide my feet into the new LL Bean, fleece-lined slippers that Val gave me for Christmas, and pad quietly over to the tarnished brass coat rack in the corner of the bedroom. After slipping on my bathrobe, I lightly touch Val’s cheek, and then exit from the bedroom, closing the door behind me.

The air in the small bungalow carries the faint odor of hickory that emanates from the Vermont Castings wood burning stove nestled in the corner of the modest living room. Its matte black surface is as cold as the slate upon which it rests, and I quickly assemble a small pyramid of Fatwood kindling within its interior, bringing it to life with a battery-powered starter (also from LL Bean). Adding one piece of hickory at a time to the firebox, I soon have a pretty good fire going.

Not only will the stove warm the room, but in rather short order, its surface will be hot enough to boil water. With that purpose in mind, I move to the kitchen, grab a copper kettle from the cupboard, and fill it with just enough water for my morning cup of hot chocolate. I start to put the whistle on the spout, but then picture Val, asleep in the other room and with a smile, remove it. The stove is already glowing, and I carefully place the kettle on its surface, then dump a couple of scoops of chocolate powder in a mug, and plop down in my armchair to wait.

Ever since I was a little kid, breakfast has always been my favorite meal. Ironically, as a New York City cop, that small pleasure was denied me for nearly twenty-five years, except on weekends—or special occasions, like today—and I reflect upon how much my life has changed in the two short years since I retired. For starters, I no longer live in Manhattan. I’m still a cop—sort of—but now I’m the Chief of Police of Roscoe, a small town in rural Upstate New York. My hours are regular, my salary sufficient, and my life expectancy a lot longer than when I worked on the other side of the Hudson River. Ironically, this was the place I always sought as a refuge from the pressures of life as a homicide detective. Like a pilgrim to Mecca, I came to fish the trout-filled waters and restore my soul whenever I could—which was never near enough.

Roscoe is a sleepy little hamlet, nestled in the Catskill Mountains, alongside route 17—or the Quickway, as it’s known locally—midway between New York City and Corning. At one time, during the ’20s and the ’30s, it was the regular weekend destination of affluent sportsmen and sportswomen, who came as much for the fresh air as the clean, spring fed waters. In those days, visitors arrived primarily by railroad coach, and the abandoned tracks alongside the Antrim Lodge serve as a reminder of that hotel’s prominence in the brief but memorable heyday of the town. Many years later, some clever-thinking fellow (probably a member of the Chamber of Commerce) dubbed Roscoe Trout Town, USA, thereby cementing its identity and no doubt prolonging its economic survival. By that time, Short Line Buses and cars had replaced the railroad as the primary method of transportation to this bucolic setting.

In reality, the entire river system that drains the western slope of the Catskills, including the Neversink, the Beaverkill, the Willowemoc, and to a lesser extent, the East and West Branches of the Delaware River make up what is considered by most experts as the birthplace of modern day fly-fishing in America.

Imagine my good fortune when Frank Kuttner, a Roscoe town council member—and good friend of mine—thought of me when the job of Police Chief became available. The quaint, but spacious bungalow that accompanied the position was all the inducement Valerie and I needed to make the switch from city dwellers to country bumpkins. The town council had dreamed up the idea of offering the cottage to the former chief’s replacement as a kind of fringe benefit, rather than pony up the money for health insurance. And, since it had been foreclosed for back taxes, it hadn’t cost them a dime. Val and I pay for renters insurance, as well as the cost of the utilities, but other than those minimal expenses, there’s no cost to us. All in all, it’s a pretty good deal all the way around. The fact that I receive lifetime health benefits from the NYPD actually helped me overcome one of the major obstacles Roscoe faced in filling its vacancy, its inability to offer healthcare. It was a win, win situation as they say. And, just like that, I became Chief of the Roscoe Police Department.

This morning marks the beginning of a special day for me. It just so happens that it’s a Saturday, and my one weekend day off. It’s also April 1, and the opening of trout season. That fact alone does not distinguish the occasion so much as the circumstances in which I find myself. For the first time, I will be participating in the event as a local, an actual resident of Roscoe—not as an out-of-towner.

In the past, I, along with countless other non-residents, have competed with one another for a spot along the perimeter of Junction Pool. Here, the Upper Beaverkill and Willowemoc Rivers merge, before continuing downstream as one body of water with a single name: the Beaverkill. The activities traditionally begin with the blowing of a whistle that signals the official start of the season, and quickly accelerate to fever pitch, as anglers cross lines (as well as tempers), in an effort to land the first keeper of the virgin season. Just as crazed are the reporters from area newspapers who furiously compete to interview the fisherman lucky enough to corral the first fish of the day. Traditionally, the next morning’s front pages feature identical photographs of the event, with accompanying stories that are suspiciously similar to those of previous years, with only the date and names having changed.

Today, however, will be different—at least for me. I have decided to forego the mob scene at Junction Pool and, instead, concentrate my efforts on a small stream several miles outside of town, off Bear Spring Mountain Road. Its waters may not harbor the stocked fish of its rivals, but the chances for a surprise are far greater. Little do I know what this day holds in store for me.

Chapter 2

Olivia, the previous year – early on day one

Olivia Michelle Elge is a seventeen-year-old senior at Elkton High School in downtown Elmira, New York. Her bright blue eyes and shoulder length blond hair hint at her Scandinavian heritage, but it is her tall, full-bodied figure, suggestive of another ethnic contribution, that attracts most of the attention from the members of the opposite sex. Her mother, Rosaria (nee: Cavalucci), is a single parent who works the night shift at the Corning Glass Works in the nearby town that bears the name of its economic benefactor. Driving the eighty-four-mile roundtrip to work, five nights a week, is a small price to pay for the comfort of knowing that Olivia and her younger brother, Frankie, each will be able to finish high school and perhaps even attend college.

Olivia, however, has other plans in mind on this crisp November day. Rather than catch the bus that will deposit her safely in front of her school, she has mapped out a different journey. Ever since her first period, she has been planning a way to pursue her goal of becoming the next big runway fashion model. Only her best friend, Linda, has any knowledge of her intentions, and the two have sworn an oath of secrecy, not to be broken under pain of death.

She dresses quickly in a pair of jeans and a green pullover sweater, laces up her tan, waterproof Dunham boots, and reaches under the bed to retrieve the nylon knapsack she packed neatly the night before with jeans and sweatshirts—and a stash of sexy undergarments (mail-ordered and shipped to Linda’s address). She carefully re-examines her makeup and hair, and then satisfied as to her appearance, slips quietly downstairs to the kitchen. Her mother and brother are fast asleep, as she hastily re-heats the pot of coffee left standing on the stovetop since the day before. While the coffee warms, she spreads peanut butter and jelly on slices of bread, slaps pairs together, and slips them into zip-lock bags, to be secreted in a zippered pocket on the outside of her knapsack.

She scribbles a note to her mother (adding words of love for her brother) and tapes it to the refrigerator door. A few tears moisten the corners of her eyes, but she wipes them away with the back of her hand, takes a deep breath, and continues her preparations for leaving.

Over the last year, Olivia has squirreled away every penny she has earned working part-time at the supermarket and from occasional babysitting jobs. Now, the sum total of nine-hundred and forty-five dollars occupies a secret compartment in her faux Louis Vuitton handbag. To her adolescent way of thinking, it is a veritable fortune. She intends to hitchhike her way to New York City and then take a subway to Brooklyn, where she can rent a room at the Greenpoint YMCA. She had hoped to stay at the famous McBurney Y in Manhattan, but her Internet research into its rates has convinced her that she’d be better off at the lesser-known residence. She figures it will only be a matter of days before she finds a job waiting tables in Manhattan. And, after that, perhaps a few more weeks or, at most, months, before she’ll be discovered.

After nervously gnawing on a day-old bagel and some cream cheese, washed down with a cup of the warmed-up coffee, Olivia Elge slips on her bright red, goose down Northface jacket. She takes one last look over her shoulder at her home, and quietly makes her way out the front door. She is at once excited and scared to death. But, one thing is for certain. There is no turning back.

Chapter 3

The drive out of Roscoe to my secret spot is a short one—less than fifteen miles—and my old Jeep Wagoneer barely raises its oil pressure as it makes the final ascent up the long Bear Spring Mountain Road toward Walton. As I pass the WLUV FM radio-station broadcast tower on my right, I slow the vehicle to a crawl. I’m searching for a cast-iron pipe sticking out of the granite hillside on my left. Not only does it bring to the surface delicious ice-cold spring water from its source, deep beneath the mountain, but it also marks the place where I must turn off the paved road and onto the narrow gravel path that leads to Cathy’s Creek—my secret spot.

I look in both directions to be sure no one sees me leave the paved road, and then quickly turn left onto the gravel surface and pull the Wagoneer to a stop. I throw open the door, and in less than thirty seconds, I’ve locked the front hubs, an action that will permit me to shift into four-wheel drive. No point in taking any chances. From here on, it’s a long, slow crawl, first up and then down the gently sloping path, for about three-quarters of a mile to the water below. The creek lies nestled in a hollow between two sloping mountains. It takes less than ten minutes to reach my destination, a small clearing off to the right of the path. I pull in, throw the transmission into park, and switch off the ignition. The sudden quiet is deafening. I roll down the window and inhale deeply; the scent of white pines and decaying leaves fills my nostrils. My ears detect the sound of running water, and I’m pulled from my vehicle as if by an invisible force. I’ve never seen Heaven, but I pray it bears some resemblance to this place.

With great care, I assemble my newly acquired bamboo fly rod. It’s not a Leonard, Garrison, or any of the other collector-type rods that adorn the For Sale pages of my favorite fly-fishing magazine. It’s just an old used Heddon that I picked up at a garage sale hosted by an elderly widow only too willing to accept the fifty-dollar bill I pressed into her delicate hand. Frank Kuttner has refinished it for me, and as far as I’m concerned, it might as well be a Gillum or a Payne, such is the joy it brings me when I take it in my hand and use it.

The water of the creek is not exceptionally deep, but having learned the hard way that hip boots are always an inch too short, I don my chest waders and slip into my vest. The delicate foot of my old Orvis CFO single-action reel just fits beneath the hooded portion of the up-locking reel seat, and I carefully twist the ring tight, securing the reel in place. I double the fly line, and thread it through the onyx stripping guides first and then through each of the smaller black ones that follow, until I reach the tip. Unwrapping a new leader, I attach it, loop-to-loop, to the nylon butt section, connected to the fly line. As I pull the tightly coiled nylon through a rubber-lined leader straightener, my fingers are trembling in anticipation. The entire ritual has lasted less than five minutes, but I feel as if I’ve already lost an hour. I’m ready to fish, and at last, I make my way to the water.

I’ve made a habit of never tying on a fly until I’ve inspected the water for signs of insect activity. That way, I’m prevented from flailing away like a novice and scaring away any trout that might be in the area. I crouch down carefully near the edge of the stream to study the surface of the water more effectively, listening (as well as watching) for any telltale activity that might reveal a feeding trout. It’s a habit acquired through years of fishing with my good friend, Hans, who introduced me to the sport so many years ago when we were both bachelors and unencumbered by wives or other such commitments. I’ve been lucky in that department; both of my wives have understood.

This is the first opening day in many a year when the morning temperature has been above freezing. Generally, at this time of the year, snow flurries fill the air, but today I’m guessing it’s already in the mid-forties. Several weeks ago, there was a premature blast of unusually warm air that melted a good deal of the winter snow pack, and now, the result is a good strong current that causes the crystal clear water to just spill over the banks of the little creek.

Upstream to my right, I catch a glimpse of the tail end of what appears to be a rise, then another. Can it be? Is there actually a hatch in progress? With trembling fingers, I open a small dry fly box and extract a size 18 early black stonefly imitation. No point in checking the water’s surface for insects; my poor eyesight, combined with the dark color of the naturals, would make it nearly impossible for me to discern them drifting by anyway. Besides, I’ve fished this particular hatch so often there’s no doubt in my mind as to its identity. Just tie on the damn fly—and hurry!

I don’t dare enter the water for fear of disturbing what little activity is occurring; in fact, I even take a step backwards to ensure that my presence will go undetected. Looking over my shoulder to be sure that no branches are in the way, I slowly begin to work out some fly line, rhythmically false casting, and enjoying the feel of the season’s first true fishing motion. Bringing the rod forward for the last time, I speed up, and then stop, just as I was taught so many years ago by Lefty Kreh at a casting seminar at a local fly shop. I watch intently, as the fly line, followed by the delicate leader, straighten above the water’s surface, and gently float down to it in a series of soft esses.

I strain to see the black fly on the water, but even with the help of my amber Polaroid sunglasses, I am unable to do so. It doesn’t matter. In the wink of an eye, a native brook trout has impaled itself on my artificial fly, and instantly cartwheels across the surface of the water, throwing a fine spray up into the air. A couple of short strips of the fly line later, and the brightly colored trout is brought to my waiting hand. It’s barely over six-inches long—typical for native brookies. With exaggerated care, I remove the hook from the corner of its mouth and gently place the little trout back in the water, facing it upstream into the current to permit the life-giving water to flow over its gills. With a flick of its tail, it departs my hand and shoots up and over into the body of the small pool from where it had originally taken my fly. Not bad, I think. One cast, one fish. A broad smile creases my face, and suddenly I wish Val were here.

Forty minutes have passed, and I’ve already worked my way nearly a quarter mile upstream from where I started. The rule of thumb I follow is When the fishing is slow, fish fast… It doesn’t take a genius to supply the converse to the much-quoted adage. Fortunately, success in this, my favorite sport, is not measured for me in quantity, but in the quality of the experience. Almost as a punctuation mark to that philosophy, I take a deep breath to experience the early spring air. But, something’s not quite right. The scent of the pines is there alright, but there’s another odor intermingled with the microscopic molecules given off by the towering conifers. I’ve smelled this smell before, I think. It has a sour quality to it. Dead animal? Maybe a drowned rodent. Whatever its cause, the smell is getting stronger as I make my way upstream, apparently toward its source. Probably a deer, I think. Got to be something big. Whew! Damn that stinks!

Up ahead is a logjam of broken