Officer Pleakly studied Salvatore Feragucci’s face as if a midterm followed the interrogation.
He searched for a glimpse, a sliver, a single grain of emotion that contradicted the clear revulsion and remorse smeared across Salvatore’s face. But Officer Pleakly found nothing but despair in the eyes of the suspect; in the eyes of the husband whose pupils bore bullet holes into the images of his brutally murdered wife displayed haphazardly across the steel table before him.
It’s been a long formaldehyde scented day for Officer Pleakly; a long day consisting of an eerily detailed description of how the mysterious blunt force traumas Ramona Feragucci endured caused her single nipple piercing to snap into multiple pieces, like shrapnel in a soldier’s chest cavity. The file, the one Pleakly “accidentally” spilled open for Mr. Feragucci to see before his lawyer arrives, showed in great detail, with both x-rays and crime scene photography, how deep those shards of shrapnel traveled.
Severing through mammary glands, straight through lung tissue, burying deeper into her bronchioles with each bludgeoning hit her frail form took. It was a long day, indeed. So long that Officer Pleakly’s heart dropped, visibly in his eyes, the moment he realized that Salvatore was uncuffed from the table in the interrogation room. But then he relaxed his shoulders, remembering how he had just locked Mr. Feragucci’s wheels 15 minutes prior.
Salvatore took a deep breath through his teeth, tears welling in his eyes, “Would you be able to cover her, please? At least, until my lawyer arrives?”
“What, can’t move your head? Close your eyes?”
Salvatore could sense that Pleakly wasn’t going to view him as he was, rather, how he must look to the more insecure variants of the male species. Even while wheelchair bound, immobile from his upper chest and down, Salvatore’s leg rests had to be custom extended due to his once staggering height. His eggplant purple silk robe, the closest article of clothing the bashful SMPD officer could snag after Feragucci’s South Miami Beach house was SWAT-ed earlier this morning, screamed the quiet luxury men like Pleakly could only smell through cologne samples in magazines. But then again, Pleakly’s distaste could simply be due to the fact that Salvatore prefers to sleep in the nude. And that he was most definitely not expecting visitors this morning.
With his strong jaw, soft deer eyes, luxurious bedhead of dark hair, and his still youthful, muscle plumped build, Salvatore knew his sex appeal would only work against him here. His high status position in the fashion world of Spain was either being sorely overlooked or completely ignored.
“Cover. Up. My wife.”
Pleakly did the exact opposite, pulling the last image from the file and aligning it next to Ramona Feragucci’s picturesque corpse. Her hair was sleek, classy, jaw length, and squid ink indigo. Her cheekbones were cliffs and her lips were plush, satin pillows. Yet her eyes, though glassy and lifeless in her last headshot, were still a hauntingly beautiful slate grey. Everything about her was custom made by the Lord, Salvatore thought, especially the moment he held her slender, pale hands at the alter. So perfect that every ensemble that graced her skin had to be custom as well. After all, that’s how he became the millionaire he is today. The Ramona Collection: Intimates For Angels destroyed any chance Victoria had at keeping her Secret. Ramona is Salvatore’s Muse. Was.
Pleakly let Sal brew for a moment longer, but he couldn’t figure out if his eyes were fixed on Ramona, or the dented, blood stained stainless steel rolling pin initialed “SF.”
“Would you like to tell me why your DNA is on the murder weapon, Mr Feragucci?” Pleakly overenunciated, his face contorted in fake confusion.
Silence.
“It’s a simple question, Mr. Feragucci. I wasn’t aware that a paraplegic was able to bake cookies.”
If Salvatore could move his hands in this moment, they would be wrapped around Pleakly’s feminine neck.
“It’s my house.”
Pleakly rebutted, “Ah, but…”
Salvatore’s agitation curled his ‘R’s, “My condition occurred recently after an unfortunate reaction to my Covid-19 vaccination. Guillain-Barre Syndrome. I used to bake chocolate croissants for Ramona often.”
Pleakly took a beat before pursing his lips, “So, who bakes them now?”
Salvatore eyes fell upon Pleakly’s once again. He was pulled deep into his most demanding memory of Ramona.
More specifically, of Ramona and Garret. But he shook himself free, mentally, at least.
Ramona hired Garret, the private chef, the moment Salvatore hired Corinne, his nurse, 3 years ago. The four lived in uncomfortable, passive aggressive harmony as Salvatore slowly but surely lost feeling and mobility in his body. It started in his toes, which inched up his legs, his thighs, his manhood, ending up by his collarbones. He could only watch from his living room into the kitchen as another man took hold of his custom rolling pin, kneading the dough his wife would soon crave more than his own. Sal knew Ramona still loved him, so much so that he tended to turn his head when Ramona helped Garret with dinner. Sal knew there were things he could no longer provide. He simply felt helpless when Ramona went searching for those things in the pantry.
“Thinking of a good way to explain why you flew from New York City to Miami the night your wife was murdered?” Pleakly stabbed.
Sal took a deep breath before stating robotically, “My wife was having an affair with my chef. I caught them in the act. I left.”
Pleakly shook his head, “But see, this doesn’t make sense. You mean to tell me that you lost everything in the matter of three year. Your wife, on top of it, and what? You decide to get a tan?”
“What are you not understanding? I. Can. Not. Move!”
Salvatore spat, cursed, and flailed against the dead weight his body held against him, yet Pleakly was not convinced.
“I did a bit of research on your condition, Mr. Feragucci. There have been cases of sudden recovery. Oh, we also did some digging in your bedroom. Found this.”
Pleakly slapped Salvatore’s fashion sketches against the table; sunglasses, sundress designs, runway couture concepts.
“Would you like to tell me why these are dated October 2024?
Salvatore sighed in exhaustion, “This was supposed to be my new collection. I had planned a year ago to release it this month before…. Before I was unable to finish the sketches. Is it a crime to reminisce? Tell me what you think that I did, Officer Pleakly!”
Pleakly stood, his fists weighing himself on the steel table as he sneered with hostile speed, “I think that you can move. If not your legs, then at least your hands. You seem to have maintained some muscle for a man who hasn’t used them in 4 years. I think you caught Ramona. On her knees or bent over your 10 grand marble counter top in your New York City Penthouse. I think you waited in the dark until your chef left for the night, and while your loving wife wiped her lipstick smudges in the reflection of your glass fridge, you grabbed the rolling pin and beat her to a pulp!”
“I LOVED HER!” Salvatore snapped, sobbing ugly tears as he tossed his head back and forth. “She was the love of my life! My muse! I knew I couldn’t satisfy her, so I left! I didn’t have the strength… I don’t have…anything….I don’t have the strength…”
Pleakly watched as the gorgeous man blubbered inconsolably. He made his way around the table, kneeling down to meet Salvatore’s gaze.
“If Garret killed your wife, then why didn’t he flee?” Pleakly fluttered.
The door to the interrogation room slammed open, “Damnit Pleakly, I’ll have your head for this!”
Salvatore’s lawyer’s heels pattered against the concrete floor as she raced to unlock his wheels, grab his chair’s handles, and guide him out of the room, “I’m so sorry Mr. Feragucci, These assholes sent me to North Beach Miami Police Department. Corinne is waiting in the car. Pleakly! You’ll be hearing from me VERY soon.”
Her eyes stabbed every officer in the precinct as she guided the millionaire out of the building and into his limousine.
She opened the door of the remodeled hearse, pulled down the ramp, and guided him into the vehicle, locking his wheels as the crowd of officers watched from the windows. She loudly shook her head for all of them to see as she walked to the street side door and climbed inside.
“I’m sorry you had to go through this right now, Mr. Feragucci,” his lawyer said.
Corinne laid her hand against his knee, Salvatore could only half smile at her attempt at consoling him.
The Miami traffic began to reach Corinne’s head, swirling it in a soft serve of nausea.
“Driver! Could you lower the windows back here?”
“I got it,” Salvatore said, reaching over to crank the window open.
