“I did it just as a joke,” Cocchi said.
In Bologna, detectives had found a letter that Cocchi wrote to his brother Joseph dated November 27, 1916. After telling his brother that his business was doing very well in America, Cocchi asked, “How are things going on in Italy? Would you advise me to come back? It would be a godsend for me to have some relative here to look after my business. My son is too young to realize what a dirty mother he has. Maria does not care about the shop and we have always been quarrelling. She is having me shadowed by private detectives because she says I am after other women. I … cannot get on with Maria. I cannot even go to my house, and during the last week have been having my meals out.
“She is an unfortunate wretch,” wrote Cocchi. “All our quarrels are due to the fact that she listens to the gossip of people who are Germans. She says we are a family of murderers and that I had to escape from Italy, where I would have been in prison. Had we been in Italy, I do not know what I would have done to her. If I had peace at home I would be the happiest man in New York.… All my work during ten years will go to the devil and my children will have nothing left, but at least the scenes of jealousy will end.”
This was the first time Cocchi had written to his family in ten years.
In New York, Wallstein continued focusing his magnifying glass on the police. In Italy, Cocchi had confessed, but he had a sharp lawyer and there was no physical evidence connecting Cocchi to the murder. He admitted to hitting Ruth with a block of wood, but no one had found it, leaving unanswered questions. As Cocchi smiled and told his endless stories, Judge Zucconi couldn’t tell if he was just stupid, desperate, or playing at some dark, larger game.
Cocchi ended his letter to his family with a list of his customers, who included, in his words, the “best people of New York.” “All the policemen who have motorcycles come to me for repairs,” bragged Cocchi. But his last lines took on a chilling countenance:
“A day of reckoning will come through to all my enemies in this country,” Cocchi said. The judge wondered exactly what that meant.
15
The Sliding Number
On June 28, Leonard Wallstein finally called for the testimony of Lieutenant Brown, who had taken the first phone call at Fourth Branch on the day Ruth disappeared. Wallstein wanted to know why Brown had not officially reported her missing until the next day. Brown claimed that he honestly didn’t remember what happened. Given the volume of calls, this was certainly understandable, so Wallstein let him take the casebook into an adjoining room to refresh himself with its contents and perhaps spark his memory.
When Brown returned, he handed over the book, and it was once again placed into evidence. The small book was then slid across the table to Wallstein, who opened it up to the date in question. Wallstein dipped his nose and read the page through his thin glasses. He stopped and looked closer. His eyes flashed on Brown.
“Were you alone while you were looking up these complaints?” Wallstein asked.
“Yes,” said Brown.
“Did you see that this ‘4’ had been changed to a ‘5’?”
Brown hesitated.
“Yes,” Brown said.
Wallstein looked even angrier. Someone had changed the 4 to a 5 in the Cruger entry and thus, February 14 had become February 15. And thus Lieutenant Brown couldn’t be accused of delaying the investigation.
“Did you make that change?” Wallstein asked sharply.
“No,” Brown answered.
“Is that your handwriting?”
A pause. “It is,” Brown said.
Wallstein stared at him. “I strongly suspect that you made that change yourself,” he said, “and if I can prove it, I shall see that you are punished.” He waved his hand. “You can come back at 2:30,” he said. Brown protested that he had been under observation while examining the casebook. Wallstein wouldn’t even look at him.
After a short recess, Wallstein returned. His face was red. “I find after examination,” he said, his words coming with difficulty, “that no one was watching Lieutenant Brown during his absence from this room when he was working on the complaint book. While I strongly suspect that he did tamper with the book, I do not wish to make the charge at the moment.” Wallstein knew Brown had done it, but there was no way to prove it.
“I answer telephone inquiries,” said Brown. “I make $2,250 a year and you accuse me of having altered the records?”
“No, I don’t accuse you,” said Wallstein. “But I strongly suspect you.”
When the hearings ended that day, new stories began to surface about the case. According to the Sun, Cocchi’s father, while visiting New York a few years before, attempted to attack Maria Cocchi. The scandal was hushed up, and the father was forced to return to Italy. Mrs. Cocchi reported it to a policeman, but nothing was ever done. Maria had told the district attorney that she took the policeman’s badge number and still had it written in her prayer book.
News had also come that Cocchi had hid himself for six days at the Society for Italian Immigrants before leaving New York in February. Cocchi said that he was housed at a loading house along with a hundred other Italians waiting departure. After staying in port for an extra two days, the ship finally cleared on Washington’s birthday. The loading house was under the direction of a priest named Father Gaspar Moretto.
The reporters and detectives descended on the Saint Raphael Society House at 8 and 10 Charlton Street that same night. When he opened his door, Father Moretto, who was young, short, and heavyset, was much surprised to see a pack of reporters. Moretto admitted that he knew Cocchi. He had gone to his shop about four or five years earlier to have a motorcycle repaired.
“No detectives came near me,” Moretto said, “but Miss Cruger’s sister came here with a very nice young man, a Catholic, and asked me if I knew anything about Cocchi. I am sorry, I told them, but I don’t know anything about them.”
“Have you seen him since February 13th?” one of the reporters asked. There was a long pause. Father Moretto replied in broken English.
“When a man comes to a priest and talks, the priest can say nothing about it,” he said.
“We are not speaking of the confessional,” said the reporter. “We asked if you had seen Cocchi since February 13th.” The priest became even more disturbed. He half turned away, wrung his hands, started to speak, hesitated, and finally turned to them.
“If the Judge asked me in court—” He left the sentence unfinished. The question was repeated. Father Moretto then turned, without replying, and entered the house.
A few moments later, he appeared once more on the doorstep and said firmly, “I have not seen Cocchi now.”
“You mean that you have not seen him since February 13th?”