A Witness and the Wax

As a McKees Rocks beat cop, George Matovich had seen plenty of witnesses squirm. But he had never seen his friend so restless. George Matuza kneaded his cap in his hands as he sat on the edge of his bed, looking out the window of his apartment in Clay Alley.

Despite the hot, humid July evening, Matovich could see a handful of gawkers still milling around in a backyard across the alley. When someone new walked up, one of the regulars would point to the rickety second-floor back porch and the bedroom window where someone had pumped three slugs into a sleeping Martha Westwood less than two days ago. Suddenly this cobblestone alley in the Bottoms was the hottest spot in town.

“Could you really see?” Matovich asked the troubled foundry worker. “I’ve got pretty good eyes and I can’t make out much…. Were you awake at 2 a.m.?”

Matuza pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped sweat from his bald head.

“My asthma, hard to sleep,” he said. “I give fan to Barbara and the kids.”

“Hard to believe nine kids can fit in this place,” Matovich thought to himself.

It was almost as hard to believe as George going to work at Pittsburgh Forging Co. just four hours after a murder. Any cop would find that hard to swallow, and the district attorney? Well, he could drive a truck through the holes in this story. Those newshounds will eat poor George alive, Matovich figured.

“I was there Tuesday night, remember? Detectives said the gunman stood on the porch and shot through the open window,” Matovich said as he walked over to the window and peered out.

“Tell me what you saw one more time, George.”

“I wake up when I hear shot,” Matuza said slowly. “I look through window, show my head a little bit. I was scared maybe I get bullets, see somebody.”

“OK, I get that,” Matovich said gently. “But are you sure Jimmy Westwood was the shooter?”

Matuza’s face flushed as he responded, clearly annoyed that his friend didn’t believe him.

“Yes! I see Jimmy staying there in the alley, doing like that.”

He swiveled his large head left and right, up and down.

Matovich leaned toward him, his own face flushed.

“Why would a justice of the peace shoot his own wife? He could have hired any low-life who appeared before him, or one of his constables. And he’s got an alibi! He was dancin’ with some party girl at Peyton’s Roadhouse at the time of the shooting. It just don’t add up!”

Matuza’s shoulders slumped for a moment. Then he gathered himself and slowly folded his muscular arms across his chest.

“I know Jimmy’s face. I know him as dirty kid living on Indian mound, charging 5 cents to see Injun skull he found.

“Maybe he wants anybody see ’em. I was scared maybe get shot!”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!” Matovich said, sitting on the bed next to his friend. “Jimmy Westwood’s a big deal ’round here. Once he gets wind of your story, there’ll be a target on your back.

“I’ll take you to see the district attorney, but I can’t guard you all the time. Maybe we should lay low for a couple days and see if any other witnesses come forward, someone more believable than Sophie Sehar. They may not need you at all!”

The two Georges agreed that was a solid plan. As Matovich walked out the back door, he saw the crowd of gawkers had thinned. He was glad he hadn’t worn his uniform. He was even gladder no

one seemed to recognize him.

“Hope that girl reporter from the Gazette isn’t around,” Matovich thought, swiveling his head as he walked down Ella Street toward his house. “She was asking a lot of questions the other night. I don’t need my name or George’s splashed across the front page.”

◾◾◾

Jimmy Westwood, constable Tim Drexler and Allegheny County detective Walter Monaghan sat at a table in the small kitchen of the McKees Rocks police station.

None of this made any sense to Monaghan. Why had Westwood asked to join his fishing trip the night of the murder? Did he plan to make him part of his alibi? Well, one part made sense, the part where the justice of the peace was out late at night with a woman other than his wife. As he turned the thing over in his mind, Monaghan watched detective Sam Riddle prepare the paraffin.

Riddle pulled a lighter from his pocket and turned the knob on the stove. To avoid burning his hand, he quickly swiped the lighter’s flame through the invisible gas emanating from the burner. When it flared, Riddle slid the pan filled with paraffin over the burner like he was frying an egg.

Drexler had been talking almost nonstop since arriving at the station.

“Walt, there’s no reason to have us here. I told you, we were at Peyton’s. The girls, they’ll corroborate that.”

“I know, Timmy,” Monaghan said. “I know you were with Catherine Cole and Peg Moran, and I’m sure they will tell us you were at Peyton’s. But you were with Jimmy earlier that night, so here we are. I gotta do my job.”

“Peyton’s is way out on Steubenville Pike! There’s no way we could have got ...”

Matovich cut him off as Bill McCready, the Bertillon operator, entered the room. One by one, McCready poured melted wax on the hands of Westwood, Drexler and Monaghan.

“What are you doing to us?” Drexler demanded.

“It’s paraffin wax,” McCready answered. “When we peel it off, the boys in the lab will treat it with a reagent. If any of you fired a gun in the past three days, the reagent will reveal gunpowder.”

Monaghan was peeling specks of wax off the back of his hands when his phone rang.

“Detective Monaghan,” he said.

“Hello, detective, this is Anna Phillips from the PostGazette. I’m calling for an update on the Westwood case.”

Monaghan sighed. “We have performed paraffin wax tests to check for gunpowder residue on James Westwood, Tim Drexler and myself. Let me make clear that none of the three of us are considered suspects at this time. The tests were conducted according to protocol because of relationship with and proximity to the victim and crime scene. We are awaiting those test results and the investigation continues.”

He forced his monotone voice into a friendlier tone in hopes of getting rid of the pesky reporter. “That good enough?”

“That’s good enough. One last thing. I heard a couple neighbors saw something. Have you interviewed Sophie Sehar or George Matuza?”

The detective cursed and slammed down the receiver.

Saturday: Chapter 6: Martha’s Black and White Parade