Acts of Contrition

By Joseph Fusco

Acts of Contrition is a thriller centered on a series of grisly murders involving successful male power brokers. The killings attract the attention of Sam Daniels, a wizened over-the-hill private detective whose reputation has been stained by a police department scandal that sent him to prison.

      His investigation leads him to Dian Asher, a cosmetics queen whose philosophy is based on goddess myths. She believes that female empowerment includes women serving as priestesses in the Church. Is it possible that her feminist agenda is fueling the murder spree? Find out in Acts of Contrition.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BearManor Media
• Release date: Feb 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393727378

Book preview

Part One

Practical Faith of the Sacred Heart

1. In the Belly of the Beast

Steven Dante recently returned from Mardi Gras and the fantastic parades, ornate floats, and opulent pageants still reveled in his head. The contrast between the gaiety of New Orleans and the somberness of New York depressed him, as did the ashen marks on the foreheads of the penitents observing Ash Wednesday. He didn’t need to be reminded of his inheritance of ashes, and the only resurrection that concerned him was his own. As far as he was concerned, he would take the indulgence of Fat Tuesday and leave the penance for Ash Wednesday.

On the first day of Lent, the playboy sat in the manager’s office at Wolf’s Gold Emporium and watched the corpulent businessman run his hands over the warmth of the hot riches he had just purchased. The pile of jewelry included an ivory horse stick pin, a pearl necklace, a ruby glass scent bottle, a miniature of children weeping by a funeral urn, and a tortoise hair comb stuck in a clover brooch. A gold charm bracelet crowned a small collection of coins, fobs, and chains with three platinum hairpins stuck between a Ferris wheel and a pair of butterfly earrings.

Dante smiled and fingered his pearl-inlaid cufflinks, thinking that it was worth all the false promises made in the heat of passionless embraces. He leaned forward and picked up the charm bracelet. The little charms came to life as he held them at eye level. The wood-nymph intrigued him because she was the most lifelike of the charms and dominated the swan, dolphin, and piglet that mingled with the chevrons, crescent horns, and knotted cords. The wood-nymph slowly turned in mid-air, her tiny head remaining fixed on Dante’s rapacious gaze. She had the face of a fox and a Gorgon’s hollow eyes. The charmer smiled and placed the bracelet in his pocket.

After all the haggling, why’d you want to keep that? asked Ferrante, pointing to Dante’s pocket.

I need it to go fishing. I always supply my own bait, replied Dante.

Then here, said Ferrante, handing Dante a ruby-headed snake ring with diamond eyes. I always give my customers a token of my appreciation.

Does this mean that I’m entitled to half of your property?

This ain’t California, pally, replied Ferrante.

Both men smiled; it was like picking over the bones of the dead, something they were used to doing. They had conducted business with each other on previous occasions, so each man was used to the other’s style: It was a case of hostile aggression versus licentious greed.

At times, Ferrante’s appetite for gold outweighed his business acumen and Dante, aware of this flaw, would drive his price through the ceiling. He knew that Ferrante was a pirate at heart and liked to be driven insane with gold fever. He would do anything to acquire quality merchandise.

During the course of the deal, Dante led the manager in a series of phone calls to his partner and the three men bandied prices back and forth. Dante agreed to a price, then changed his mind after Ferrante hung up. His capriciousness cost Ferrante three phone calls and an earful of vituperation from his partner before the final deal was made.

Ferrante and his partner got the cache and Dante made a profit that exceeded his wildest expectations. It was the Dante touch — a unique ability to steer any business deal or amorous adventure in his favor with a minimum of effort and a maximum of profit.

Ferrante cursed Dante before excusing himself to go to the safe in the other room.

The smug player evaluated the manager’s office and disapproved of his taste in interior design: The sports hall of fame mirrors and the W.C. Fields dummy seemed inappropriate for a business milieu. The only item that earned his approval was a glass showcase of Venus statuettes: Venus Di Milo, the goddess of Willendorf, and a relief of Botticelli’s vision rising from a seashell. He liked the armless statue most of all. The thought of a woman who couldn’t fight back excited him.

The manager returned and paid Dante in crisp currency that crackled when exchanging hands. The two men bade pleasantries to each other and Dante left the office, closing the door behind him. He took his time walking across the carpeted lobby, eyeing the customers that were lined up in front of the brokerage windows. Some brought gold fillings wrapped in tissue paper, rings from defunct engagements, and gold pins from school days; others brought brass doorknobs, gold-plated rings, and costume jewelry. It was their hedge against inflation.

Dante stopped and looked at the middle-aged women. His experience separated the widows from the divorcees and his expertise divided the widows into two categories: those who honored the memory of their devoted husbands and those who devoted the memory of their husbands to honor them. He knew the second type quite well. They had a certain look to them, like fat spiders caught in their own webs.

In his mind, he fantasized about what type of prospects they would make; not much, he concluded. If they had any social prestige, they would be in the office with their lawyers, enticing Ferrante to a fate he’d always dreaded, but never regretted succumbing to — gold gluttony.

Dante pretended that the lonely hearts on line would be like the ones he would wind up courting in his declining years. His wallet burned at the thought and his bemused look turned into a contemptuous glare. He left the emporium and walked down the block to meet his friend, who was waiting in a new BMW.

How did you do? asked the man with the vapid face and poodle-cut perm.

How do I always do? snapped Dante as he got into the car.

I got rid of everything, except this, he said, dangling the charm bracelet in the man’s face. It’s old-fashioned, but it will be effective for my next catch. I’m going to use it as bait. That’s my method: I rob from a bitch and give to a whore; change the devil for a witch and go back for more.

His friend bleated in glee. He admired Dante and did his best to imitate him. Dante had the three C’s: class, cleverness, and connivance.

What’s that? asked Dante, pointing to a gift-wrapped box on his friend’s lap.

It’s for you. Some stunning blonde chick handed it to me. She said she owed you one.

Dante looked puzzled.

Well, open it up, asshole.

The man unwrapped the package and opened the box.

Looks like a gold-plated dildo, he commented.

Another satisfied customer, remarked Dante with pride.

You sure have the buzz, said the sycophant in a tone of hero-worship.

Don’t you know it! Pretty soon, you’ll have the buzz, too, when I show you how to spread yourself all over town.

Dante smiled with the assurance of a man who felt that he would live forever. He turned on the ignition of his car and it exploded into a fireball that blew out the windows of three stores and turned a traffic cop into an afternoon sparkler. For forty-five minutes the car burned with an uncommon intensity. When the fire was put out, the twisted wreckage glowed like a collection of jewels in the belly of a vengeful beast.

2. The Vengeance Referendum

The echo of a hollow ring faded in a chiaroscuro room where curtains hid the day and the absence of a clock muted time. Victorian furniture struck the pose of disgruntled lovers caught in the disgust of their deceit. A forlorn woman sat on a bed trimmed with pink lace. She was postured in a lotus position, a phone at her feet and a business card in her hand. Her pain was so deep that it sealed the room with an elastic gloom.

The phone rang again and she smiled when she answered it. A fire burned inside her chest, filling her with the warmth of comfort and satisfaction. She hung up the phone and kissed the card, her eyes moistening at the logo of dancing hearts and flowers in bloom.

3. Postulations at The End of The World

Nothing smells more like whiskey breath and stale pipe dreams than the office of a private investigator worn out by principles he has long since abandoned. Sam Daniels was such a detective, a man who thanked Heaven for not existing and one who cursed the day the mirror was invented. He was cynical and old — a disease for which there was no cure.

Sam sat at a large oak desk marred by cigar burns and claw marks. The light from an old lamp highlighted sticky patches of stain that dotted the desk like little ponds of luminous quicksand. A wide-eyed stuffed owl rose out of the landscape of paperwork and debris that cluttered the desk, its nasal drip soiling the inkblot. It stared at Sam as he spoke on the phone, his gruff voice slicing the darkness with razor-like precision.

The man on the other end of the line was screaming, his voice, a tiny crackle over the phone. His name was Lt. Alvin Calley, and his association with Sam was long and undistinguished. It was a union held together by an archaic sense of loyalty and dark secrets of betrayal.

Although once partners, Lt. Calley believed that Sam was now an investigator past his prime. His crime theories were rarely cogent, and, more often than not, they were offbeat and annoying. Since his dismissal from the force, Sam was looked upon as an eccentric nuisance whose interference impeded too many cases. But he was still regarded as the department’s mascot, a stuffed animal like the one perched on his desk.

You’re wrong, Cal, interjected Sam. The car bombing has a definite link to the Exploding Chef and the Rorschach Murder. How do I know? It’s so obvious, for chrissakes!

Listen, Sammy, I’m out of time, came the heated reply.

Just wait a second and let me-

Coin flip — you lose, was the hollow retort, followed by a click and a dial tone.

Sam remained undaunted. He was used to Calley’s abruptness. The aged detective was about to shift the conversation to Jeffrey, the stuffed owl, when a tall, spindly man entered the office. Dressed in blue jeans, sneakers, a Yankees team jacket and baseball cap, he looked like a large child waiting to be taken to the playground. His name was Lenny and he worked for his parents at Maxwell’s Dive, Sam’s favorite diner.

When Sam was in his office around dinnertime, he would call Max and Lenny delivered the order. Today, it was corned beef sandwiches and cream soda. It was a ritual for Sam to eat his beloved corned beef sandwiches while concocting his late afternoon postulations.

How are you doin’, Len? asked Sam.

Fine, Sam. Just fine. I heard you talking, so I waited outside.

You didn’t have to do that, Len. You can come in anytime except, of course, when the red light is on.

Sam pointed to a red strobe light hanging over the cot. Lenny missed the point.

Light, Sam? I like lights.

So do I, Sam told him. They say that Heaven is a thousand points of light flashing at the same time.

Then I must be in Heaven when I close my eyes and rub them. I see pretty lights dancing. Is that what you mean?

That’s exactly what I mean.

Lenny liked to make deliveries to the office because of his fondness for Sam’s way of talking. He also enjoyed looking at his collection of mock explosives, which were scattered among and wired to an army of collectibles.

In the corner, a jar of phony nitro was wired to a miniature suit of armor named Redcrosse; next to it, a pineapple grenade was jammed into the mouth of a Korean ceremonial mask; and on a shelf behind the cot, a Bangalore torpedo was nestled between two nipple time bombs. The bomb paraphernalia fascinated Lenny, who admired Sam’s love of explosives.

Sam learned his craft during the Korean War and developed it during his early days on the bomb squad during the late Fifties. Now that he was no longer active in the department, he built scale replicas to satisfy his love of crafting.

Keep the change, he told Lenny, handing him a ten-dollar bill.

Thanks, Sam. Take it easy. See you later, Jeffrey.

Lenny waved at the owl as he left the office.

Jeffrey sat silent and upright, his nocturnal eyes staring holes through Sam as he unwrapped a corned beef sandwich.

Did I ever tell you the secret to good corned beef, Jeffrey? asked Sam. It’s the gristle and juice, plus plenty of mustard. Can’t forget the pickle.

He pointed to a sour dill pickle.

It’s the chaser to every bite. Speaking of which…

Sam opened a desk drawer and removed a fifth of rye whiskey. He unscrewed the top and poured himself a drink. Sam lifted the glass and toasted Jeffrey.

This is to you and the family jewels.

He drank his poison and smiled. It was his way of saying grace.

One day, Jeffrey, I’m going to die like Socrates. I’m telling you the truth.

Sam wiped his mouth and groaned. Jeffrey stared in silence, a slight grin lifting the corner of his beak.

Now for the postulations. Are you ready, Jeffrey? Shall we postulate?

Sam shifted his massive bulk and the leather chair creaked as the metal wheels groaned beneath his weight. The wheels were used to Sam’s postulations: they were the bane of their existence.

As I see it, the points connecting these murders is the degree of their horror and a cruel irony that shows an emotional and intellectual profundity possessed by a chosen few.

When Sam spoke, it was in rough clips spread out with a sense of world-weariness mixed with the kind of wisdom one got from looking at life through the wrong end of a shot glass.

He took a large bite of the sandwich and chewed his way to an early heaven.

He swallowed it in one gulp and washed it down with a slug of cream soda. Sam burped in glee and wiped his mouth.

"First, there was the Exploding Chef, so-called because of his capacity to suddenly pass from a solid to a gaseous state upon igniting his new dish — Desiccated Templar — at the Flayed Soul Restaurant; all in honor of Mardi Gras."

Sam recalled his only Mardi Gras, attended in ‘64. Death Masks and Gumbo, he called it. He smiled and refocused on his postulations.

"It seems that someone stuffed his roast with a plastic explosive and basted it with a volatile slurry. That’s when a farce became a motion that turned El Grande Gourmet into Monsieur Zero, along with a dinner party of exclusive guests that included former Mayor David Manners and Ace Picardo, the financier. The only survivor was the former cosmetics queen, Dian Asher, who was in the ladies’ room at the time."

Sam took another bite of his sandwich.

The homicide boys pinned the act on a jealous lover and ruled it a murder-suicide, putting the plural on ‘murder’.

It didn’t make sense to Sam that the chef’s girlfriend would sabotage the meal to kill him, along with an impressive guest list. She had just completed a lucrative book deal with Shanna Oates, the publisher who sat on her left, and served as godmother at the christening of the Walcott child, whose parents were also killed in the blast. No, there wasn’t any logic in killing her friends and associates just to dispense with her boyfriend.

Such a murder is a private crime, Sam continued; something to be shared between the predator and the victim. To commit a crime of passion and be consumed by it would be too awe-inspiring to share with a roomful of people. Besides, she didn’t fit the Swedish suicide profile because she had immediate goals and too much to live for. Also, the booby-trap M.O. was a professional’s way of accomplishing mass destruction, in addition to the elimination of the original target.

Sam learned that in the Marines. He poured another drink and repeated the toast.

"Then, there was the Rorschach Murder, committed on Park Avenue, the street of swells. It happened to Dr. Maurice Du Bois, who returned from a performance of Twelfth Night to find a special delivery of The Interpretation of Dreams — a gilt-edged edition, I believe. He opened it up and-before you know it! — his remains resembled an inkblot pattern in the edifice wrecked. Anyway, it’s my feeling that the exclusive edition showed a collector’s knowledge of literary history and an abundance of cash to burn; also, the mail bomb gift idea revealed a taste for the delicate and an expertise in detonation."

Sam stopped talking and stared at the swirls of dust in the air around Red-crosse. Little novas blinked inside its’ visor.

The result? he asked, not knowing why.

He regained his train of thought.

The result? Harold Crumb, the pampered son of a millionaire art collector was arrested and charged with the crime. Crumb considered himself a werewolf and visited the analyst to explore the depths of his lycanthropic tendencies. Notes found in his room included poems and drawings of the lunar phases. The clincher was a painting of his hirsute self sipping blood from D.B’s shredded neck. Another point against him was a childhood habit of blowing up his parents’ bed with an assortment of firecrackers, cherry bombs, and ash cans. Sounds like a reverse Electra complex to me.

Sam paused to massage his temples. He wondered if he got his Greek complexes mixed up and was going to ask Diogenes a question about Sophocles. Instead, he looked at the papier-mâché tracker dog sitting in his tub, holding a lantern in his paw and wearing an electronic stethoscope around his neck. He passed on the question and resumed his postulations.

When I spoke to Cal about this one, he gave me the usual theory of mad bombers and shrink killers. It’s all coincidence according to Cal because he believes in coincidence. That’s what he said: ‘It’s just the way it is’ — is what he actually said. As for me, I think it was the high rates that did him in. Did you ever go to a Freudian shrink, Jeffrey? Those guys are vampires.

Sam finished the first sandwich and looked at what was left in the bottle. He swirled it around and watched the honey-colored liquid splash against the glass. He poured himself another drink and put away the bottle.

And that brings us to the latest surprise —  He took a bite out of the second sandwich and savored the taste of a fat and mustard deposit.

 — the car bombing.

He talked as he chewed.

Cal and the boys surmised that the driver was the intended victim. He was identified through his plates. Dental plates, that is. His passenger was along for the ride. It seems that the bums were pretzels. God bless the day that they died. God bless the day that all of them die.

Sam paused for a minute and painted a portrait of a Madonna and Child on a canvas of air. He sealed it with make-believe tears.

The lowlife had sold an impressive lot of gold and diamonds, stuff that he excavated from a bottomless lode through alluvial mining, if you know what I’m alluding to.

He chuckled and coughed. A chug of cream soda cleared his throat.

Cal said that when the fire was put out, there was nothing left of him or his friend. What a ride — from diamonds to ashes.

Sam paused once more; this time to formulate his hypothesis. He sampled the crunch of a pickle and used its’ remains to emphasize his point.

These murders appear to be committed at random, but they’re actually carried out in a systematic manner. They are planned to appear as ethereal as the wind, yet they’re made of concrete. I’m telling you, Jeffrey — they have a common thread running through them: cruelty and finesse. That’s why they were committed by the same person. How do I know? you ask. It’s obvious. At least to me it is. You see, they point to the Cool-Phantom Syndrome, which is based on my theory of fire and ice."

Now his head was really spinning.

When the abstractions of the quantitative analysis subtracted from a perfunctory line of reasoning leads to an answer that is a graceless gift from the immortals…

Sam