Many Cones, Based On True Crime

Mini Cones:  Ramesh Recaps Chapters 15-18

Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 15-18 ahead of the release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with a story about the author, Steve Lustina, quothing the raven nevermore.

 Chapter 18  starts with Richard Sparne dropping off Richard Morales after their night at Zola's.

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     

Sparne and Morales dropped the other kid off in his quiet neighborhood. He walked across freshly mown grass and through shadows of large oak trees. A dark shape moved slowly behind an illuminated curtained window. The door opened before the other kid hit the porch. Sparne had driven away by then. 

Morales wanted to go home. Richard navigated the vehicle around the still lively dead end. He pulled into the driveway, and asked, “Will I have any problem getting out of here?” 

Ricardo glanced over towards the assemblage. The hardcores were the only ones that remained. Mostly males. “No. They won’t fuck with you. I’ll make sure they know who you are.” Sparne nodded his head and laid open the palm of his hand. “Good work tonight, man. Probably another week and we’ll be running things.” Ricardo slapped the open palm and said, “Fuckin A, man. More pussy and money than we’ve ever seen. Maybe I’ll buy these fuckers a... a ferris wheel. Set it up right in the middle.” 

Both laughed at the thought. Ricardo exited the vehicle, and rather than go inside, strutted through the party holdovers. He was thinking of the best way to surprise his mother with a new house. He knew it would be soon. 

Sparne circled the pear shaped course slowly. He sat rigid in the car, like a visiting dignitary. These crooks probably already know what happened tonight, he thought. They’re afraid to fuck with me. Good thing. Ferris wheel. Hah. That’s about all they’re good for. Play around like a bunch of bitches. 

Albert Moffit was sitting on one end of the divan, his wife the other. He couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken. No matter. A group of blond haired, blue eyed teenagers were on television. They were testifying about how their lives had changed since they had accepted Jesus. An oily looking moderator was issuing exaggerated sighs with each new revelation. About every ninety seconds. 

Moffit heard the words from the group, but they didn’t register. He was glued to the set, but not for the usual spiels. He was waiting for the special language. It was directed to him. 

At first, he was only able to pick up bits and pieces. Then, pow. Every syllable and gesture. Now that he understood completely, he endured hours and hours of scam, waiting for that two or three minute burst, when the sing song made sense. Told him things he had to do. Praised him for things he had done. The mediums had even mentioned him by name. Announced his fame and glory to all who could decipher the argot. 

The side doorbell rang. Moffit excused himself politely, got no response, and trod to his office. He admitted Sparne. Took the shotgun, returned it to its case and closet, and went back. The Kid was seated in one of the chairs fronting the desk. 

Albert reached his chair and sat. He allowed the mood to deepen. The Kid fidgeted. Finally Moffit said, “Were my orders carried out?” 

“They were carried out perfectly, Mr. Moffit. We went in at 11:00 and took everyone by surprise. No one was left standing.” 

Albert nodded his head solemnly, “How many?” Richard thought for a split second and said, “Three... No, I’m sorry, four. There were four people in the bar, we got 'em all.” 

 Chapter 17 starts with Margie Grenk waiting for her husband to arrive home. 

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     

At midnight, Margie broke down and cried. It came all of a sudden, like a huge dam crumbling. Warning signs present, but not recognized. 

From nine to ten thirty, she had soaked in a lilac scented bubble bath. Then called her sister for the fourth time to make sure everything was okay with the kids. Her sister told her not to call again. 

First make-up, then start getting dressed. If you can call it getting dressed. Red, frilly, almost see through, silk bra. As she snapped it in place and scanned the reflection in the mirror, she thought, I should have bought a push-up bra. Goddamn men, why do they have to make such a big deal over stupid lumps of skin. Still, they are nice and pert. 

Slowly slip on the crimson garter belt. Next, same color and material panties. As she scanned again, she half blushed at the obvious dark imprint of her black, matted pubic hair. Then, nude nylons and black high heels. Scan, once again. My God, I look like a hooker. She smiled at her reflection. But a goddamn world class hooker. Jay honey, you deserve this. 

She was glad she didn’t tell him about her little masquerade. He would fall on his knees when he saw the goods. The grin turned to a frown, as she realized she’d have to wait idly in the house for another fifteen minutes, in her heels. Well, at least it will add definition to my legs. 

Satisfied with the undergarments, she donned a sheer white, voile peignoir. Costume complete, she returned to the mirror one more time. She waved goodbye to herself, as she left to pine for her absent knight. 

Margie took a chilled bottle of a mid range claret from the refrigerator, and opened it with a winged corkscrew. She poured herself a glass, and put the bottle in an ice bucket on the dining room table. ‘To breathe,” she laughed to herself. 

When buying the wine, Margie had second thoughts about plying her husband, but decided he was getting it under control. One bottle of good wine between two people wasn’t really drinking, anyway. It was healthy. 

Margie paired her wine with a Frank Sinatra album. She stood, took a sip of wine, and tried to figure out where a person, dressed or undressed as she was, would sit. Dining room chair or couch? Dining room chair was out, she decided. The prostitute’s union would picket my house, if they saw me in a dining room chair. That left the couch. She eased onto the soft cushions, careful not to spill the wine, and wondered if there was a lady-like way to rise when the time came. 

The first glass was polished off by 11:15. She leaned forward, watched her pert breasts rub against her knees, and struggled to rise from the soft concave of the couch. Christ, that won’t do. I wonder if my tits hit my knees every time I get up. I’ll have to pay better attention next time I’m fully clothed. 

Chapter 16  starts with a 911 call routed to Ray Grandisha.

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     

Grandisha had put in a full day and night. His gnarled knuckles were still sore from hitting Crownder. The violent streak he had worked so hard to control had reminded him that it still lurked somewhere in the recesses. Deep down like a painful childhood memory, but always there. 

He was no closer to figuring out who did what and why to the Donas’s, and that made his whole body sore. Ray had cleared the top of his desk and was getting ready to leave when the call came in through his direct office line. The 911 operator was smart enough to recognize the similarity, and routed the call directly to him. The news stunned him. It shouldn’t have. He knew something was going to happen again. Just not when. Just not this quickly. 

Ray called everyone involved in the Donas investigation and arranged for them to meet at the scene. Except Margie Grenk. She needed to get laid. And except for Crownder. He was out. Four bodies this time. Fuck. 

Driving down the boulevard, he picked up the strobe effect of the Mars lights about six blocks from the scene. Twentieth century’s Delphi. The oracle of sadness. 

As he neared the location, a bar called Zola’s, the squad cars came into view. Two black and whites. Both parked on the avenue in front of the establishment. Ray slowed and stopped as he reached the tavern. Then jerked his vehicle up and over the curb, blocking the sidewalk, front fender facing a sterile parking lot. Two cars were still on the grounds, angled against the building. 

Four uniformed officers were guarding the two entrances. They had checked for signs of life inside. Found none. They were trained to avoid the possibility of tainting evidence and followed their instructions perfectly. Higher ups and professionals would do the sifting and marking. 

Ray noticed a man, looking to be in his late forties, sitting in a police car, directly across from the bar’s front entrance. Must be the phone call. Grandisha questioned a uniformed policeman near the front door and verified the man’s identity. Then briefly heard the quick, sad story, from the same officer. 

The Lieutenant entered the vehicle. “Sir, my name is Ray Grandisha. I’m a detective and I will be investigating this case. I want to talk to you, but I have to go in the bar first. I have to see it for myself, then ask you some questions. Are you okay sitting here?” 

Donald replied, “I won’t go back in there.” 

Grandisha turned in the seat. “You don’t have to go back in.” Even though no response was forthcoming, Grandisha knew the man understood. He exited the vehicle. 

Grandisha spoke to one of the uniformed officers again. He wanted a mental picture of where everything was, before he entered the building. Apprised of body location, he decided to go in the side door. The parking lot was unpaved and rutted with desert hued, hard, small mounds. As he carefully took his first step, he heard other vehicles arriving. 

Chapter 15 starts with Richard Sparne loading his father's trunk with shotguns. 

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     

The Kid placed the shotguns in the trunk of his father’s car, next to Moffit’s. His parents were in the house, watching television, unaware of his activities. Outside it was dark, so he didn’t have to sneak around. He checked his back pocket to make sure he had the index card, then left to pick up Ricardo. 

There was a party going on. Fifteen Hispanic males eyed the white kid behind the wheel, viciously. Alcohol, drugs, and ethnic posturing intensified the confrontational craving of the young men. Sparne slowly skirted the outer perimeter of the pear shaped dead end. Enough good vibes remained, from the balance of the revelers, to prevent any overt displays of hatred towards the intruder. When Richard pulled into the Morales driveway, all cold stares returned to warmer pursuits. 

The Kid sat and watched as Ricardo, standing in the doorway, hugged his mother. He held her hand, said something, and then came towards the car. Once he was in the vehicle, Sparne navigated his way back around the festivities. Richard asked, “Are these parties any good?” Ricardo answered, “They used to be.” 

They drove to a third teenager’s home. A friend of Ricardo’s. He had been with them at the pimp’s apartment. Both agreed he was an up and coming soldier. Plus, he was the only other kid in the group who had ever fired a shotgun. 

The third kid lived on a quiet residential street ten minutes from Ricardo. Sparne parked on the street. Morales walked to the front door, chatted for a second with parents, and returned with a baby faced, cold blooded killer. 

When the two entered the vehicle, the dome light shone on Richard, holding the index card in his hand. He had read the address again, and hunched forward to return the card to his back pocket. Ricardo asked if he knew where “Zola’s” was located. The Kid said, “Yep.” Once the card was pocketed, they were on their way. 

The two more important participants talked about how this hit would finally get the message out to their underlings. The third teen sat in awe, listening, thankful to be associated with these two obviously important men. 

“Zola’s” was the second structure from the end of the block. It was a long rectangular building with a short side facing a fairly busy, four lane boulevard. A large picture window, framing the busy street, contained a bright neon sign that nightly announced its existence. 

Between the establishment and a third business, an empty lot loomed. It was covered by hardpan clay, severely rutted. A large notice, painted on the long side of the rectangle, warned that only patrons of “Zola’s” could park in the lot. There was an entrance at the corner of the bar, facing the boulevard, and a back door, of sorts, in the middle of the painted warning. 

The private parking lot was reached through an alley, which ran the length of the block, behind the establishments. Patrons usually angled their vehicles against the side of the building. Sometimes cars reached the lot by jumping over the curb and sidewalk from the boulevard, but not often. 

A long, shiny, mahogany bar ran from the middle of the picture window, half way back through the structure. Cheap, cushioned, bar stools, with no backs, stood at attention under a curved wooden lip. Behind the bar, rows and rows of various elixirs basked in the refracted glow of dim overhead lights. 

Great friend of the podcast, Ramesh Unni, recaps chapters 11-14 ahead of the release of the next 4 chapters.  Ramesh starts with a story about the author, Steve Lustina. 

 Chapter 14  starts with Richard Grandisha waking in a surly mood after drinking too much the night before. 

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    

The morning broke overcast. Grandisha woke in a surly mood. He had drank too much and there were blackout patches he had trouble recalling. Maybe he should quit drinking? Then what? He couldn’t come up with an acceptable answer. Well, I can’t quit drinking then, he thought. Have to get some control back though. 

He remained flat on his back, in bed. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a red rectangle. Good. A lazy arm reached over, shook a Pall Mall out and placed it to his lips. The arm went back for the Zippo. He lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply and coughed heavily. Jesus Christ, next I’ll have to quit smoking, too. Once over the spasm, he felt better. He leaned on an elbow, found an ashtray, laid back again, and finished his smoke. 

Grandisha thought about Margie. A seriously, seriously vulnerable friend. Breaking her ass to do a good job at home and at work, she was too good a person to be saddled with an alcoholic. Hopefully her husband would straighten out. Things had to start falling her way. He could solve the Crownder problem and he would, today. Maybe the other thing would work out, too. He’d give her whatever help he could. 

Thinking about her lifted his spirits. Good. A reason to get up and face everything, again. Ray did all the bathroom things and went for breakfast, then to work. 

The first item on the agenda was to meet, en masse, with all the investigators, again. Nothing new. Everything was reviewed for the umpteenth time plus one. Every piece of information discussed, even those highlighted and explained. Theories put forward. From Asian drug lords to Zodiacal bayers on the moon. Nothing. Ray was running out of fresh ideas to pursue. He gave the group another pep talk, more for himself than them. Assured everyone that sooner or later the team would solve the case. He had his doubts, but no one saw them. 

Crownder was not present. Margie was. Clad in a knee length, dark skirt, white blouse, and a man’s black vest. Preppy cute was the thought that flashed in Ray’s mind. He couldn’t believe the next idea forming. Bubbly. She was bubbly. Christ, he’d never thought of anyone as bubbly before. 

Sitting in the crowd of investigators, ten yards or so from Ray, Margie’s cracked lip was unrecognizable to him. She must have been a master cosmetician. Her co-workers were unaware of the prior night’s events. The make-up job kept them from quick double takes and gossipy whispers. No one noticed the damage. 

The meeting broke up and people scurried to pursue their individual tasks. Grandisha thought the morale was still good. He collected his information and returned to his office. Margie followed him. 

Ray sunk his old bones behind his desk. Margie brightened the drab room. Picked up Grandisha’s spirits, again. Being closer to her, he noticed the powder job on the corner of her mouth. The lip was cracked, but covered by the natural shape of her grin. You had to know what you were looking for to recognize the disguised injury. 

Chapter 13  starts with a commotion outside Regis Cahan's office.

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.

Regis Cahan was distracted by a commotion outside of his private office. He was with a client. The client looked askance at him. A silence developed between the two as the external noise overtook their matters. Cahan said, “Excuse me,” left his desk and casually rushed to the reception area. He closed the door behind him, ensuring separation between the inner and outer sanctums.  

As Cahan neared his secretary, he heard, “I don’t have time for your shit, I want to see him right now.” The speaker was a stocky Hispanic teen trying to maintain a threatening glare towards the petite, well endowed curator of Cahan’s office. She was not cowering. He looked bullyish and juvenile.  

“What is your problem?” Cahan demanded. In a voice and attitude that quieted even Ricardo Morales. For a moment, anyway.  

“I have an appointment to see you. Now. I don’t even want to be here but this stupid bitch called me...”   

Regis immediately jumped in, “Stop it! That’s enough!” The volume and intensity of his voice shook all parties, even Regis. His hands were at his sides and he resisted raising them for fear of trembling. In the same voice, he yelled again, “Sit down and shut up. Don’t say another fucking word to or about this lady.” He had somehow calmed the shakes. A split second occurrence. When he pointed at his secretary, the aim was true and still.  

“I am with someone. When I finish, I will see you. We will conclude our business; if I hear another fucking sound from out here, I will throw your ass in jail. Do you understand me?”  

Morales snarled “Yes, I understand you.”  

“Good.” Cahan looked at his secretary as he said good and continued, “I apologize for the demeaning language. I can assure you it will not occur again.” He turned and stared at Ricardo, who shrank perceptively into his chair. Cahan maintained his stance for a few seconds, and when he was satisfied that his secretary was in no danger, returned to his abandoned client.  

Chapter 12  starts with Ray Grandisha and Ramon discussing the relative value of the prevent defense.

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    

As Albert Moffit was receiving his latest revelation, Grandisha and Ramon were chatting at the bar. Ray had been in the “Fine Time” for close to three hours. He was working on his fifth drink. After the third serving, Ramon started cutting back the Glenlivet ratio. It was going to be a long night. They were discussing everything imaginable, except crimes and criminals. Ramon mostly listened.  

Grandisha had started the day early. He had planned to review each piece of evidence and information. For the umpteenth time. Half way through, he realized everything was already committed to memory. He was wasting his time on a rote exercise.  

Something was there, some clue or hint, it just had to be discovered and cultivated. Ray closed the Donas file and spent the balance of his working day trying to answer the question he knew was important. Why would strangers intentionally butcher two people, and then search their home?  The only answer he could come up with was that someone sent them. But that led to another question. Wouldn’t that someone tell the strangers two people lived in the residence? The conundrums had sapped Ray’s reasoning and investigative powers. He hoped the scotch and idle banter would cleanse the slate and give him a new perspective. At least there were no new massacres. Yet. He doubted this was a one time slaughter. 

Margie had arrived at work sans police uniform. Instead, old jeans, off white, medium weight sweater, and worn, navy blue, wool sports coat. When Ray shot her a questioning look, she said she would tell him later. He wasn’t worried; her spirits seemed high.

Grandisha sent Margie and Joe Crownder back to the apartment complex. One more time. Talk to people again. Go door to door. Find residents that hadn’t been interviewed before. Maybe concentrate on other buildings in the complex.  

The two detectives spent the entire day chasing shadows. As they were preparing to leave, empty handed, they came upon two middle aged tramps, dressed and reeking accordingly, trying to peer in the Donas picture window. Margie wanted to send them on their way. Joe, treating them like Leopold and Loeb, insisted on bringing them in for questioning. He arrogantly reminded Margie about criminals returning to the scene of the crime. She relented, to prevent a scene at the scene of the crime.  

Late in the afternoon, Grenk and Crownder arrived back at the office, Bonnie and Clyde in tow, just as Ray was preparing to leave. He stayed for an extra hour. Margie’s spirits had fallen, noticeably. She explained her position to Ray, Joe his. Although he silently agreed with Margie’s objection to hassling the two, he told them to question the bums, run prints, and if nothing developed, no warrants or prior related convictions showed up, to release them. Crownder sneered smugly.  

 Chapter 11 starts with Albert Moffit and his wife enjoying some televangelism.  

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.    

Albert Moffit had been standing behind his wife for some time. She was seated in the corner of an old, brightly speckled divan. Her body countervailed the life colors. She sat straight, as if at attention.  

On the tube, a slick haired gentleman with a southern accent was squinting baby blues, and acknowledging invalids across the television world; he had been alerted by God and was listing out each malady. Every so often he mentioned a first name and offered comfort. God would not alert him to the pain and suffering without first making sure the victims were watching television.  

The silver tongue sat, laid his hands on a dark brown, ornate volume of something or other. He pushed himself ramrod sharp, shoulders hunched, eyes closed with obvious effort, and began intoning. “Bless me Father . ..” Suddenly he seized up, began shuddering, slowed the tics and shook his head from side to side. Eyes still tightly shut. While rotating his head, he spewed sing-song, enclitic homonyms. Melodic nonsense.  

Just as quickly as the tongues came, they vanished. The proud medium settled into himself, calm, all smiles. He opened his eyes slowly, and in a Mr. Roger’s voice, said, “That was God. God has a special message for... “  

When his wife began her vigil to huckster divinity, Moffit used to openly laugh at the scam. That was some years ago.  His actions drove his wife further into herself. In the beginning, she would argue with Albert. Explain her interest and attachment as relaxation. Then she stopped listening to Albert. He stopped reacting, stopped laughing, stopped speaking to her.  

Now the Divine Presentations engendered no responses in Moffit. He stood slack-jawed, unfocused, and allowed the rantings to enter his consciousness, without apparent recognition.  

As the preacher was quoting, “A special message for...”  Moffit heard a heavy rapping on his office door. He left the front room. Did not consider that he would never learn the recipient of that special message. His wife never acknowledged that he was standing close enough to reach out and touch.  

Albert opened the door. Richard Sparne strutted in, as self important men often do. He remained standing until Moffit extended an arm, indicating a chair.  

The Kid appreciated his own sense of comfort in the presence of power. He ached to continue impressing and bypassed pleasantries. “I’m in the process of recruiting some girls for our stables.”  

Moffit feigned interest, not sure if he followed the Kid’s lead in. “Tell me about it.” 

“There’s a ton of good looking bitches in my school. I figure if we start them young enough, they’ll bring top dollar on the market.”  

Moffit was still not certain which market the Kid was talking about. He sat without comment.