by
ISBN 0-917990-89-7
Table of Contents
Fifty-Minutes Flaherty
Goodbye, Grandma
A Timely Death
Christmas Stalkings
Death in the Stables
Death of a Pigeon
Death of a Sasquatch
Death of an Unfaithful Wife
Death on the Fifty-Yard Line
Designer Death
Double Homicide
Drive-By
Gate Crasher
Gridlock
Gunless
Homeless Homicide
Lifeline
Murder in the Presbytery
OD
Christmas Unwrappings
Self-Incrimination
The Carnie Caper
The Case of the Barking Dog
The Death Car
An Accidental Death
The Immovable Body
The Importance of Color
The
The Liquor Store Holdup
The Missing Shipment
The Phone Call
The Plaid Jacket
The Police Commission
The Restraining Order
The Signing
The Traffic Ticket Alibi
Windstorm
The Importance of Knowing Motive
The Only Possibility
Steer Stampede
The Marble Pedestal
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wondered if "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty was going to live up to his reputation today. This was no barroom brawl where twenty witnesses could testify to who had done the knifing, where Flaherty could make an arrest as he walked through the door. This homicide had occurred in a private apartment, and even though there were only three possible perpetrators, Donaldson couldn't see how Flaherty would be able to pin it on any one of them.
Homicide Lieutenant Flaherty didn't stop to question any of the three. Instead, he moved immediately into the apartment's computer room, bringing Donaldson along to provide a quick briefing, while the suspects waited uncomfortably in the living room. The Sergeant looked surreptitiously at his watch. Ten-ten. Would the murderer be under arrest by eleven?
Lounging back in the office chair, his grey hair neatly combed, his expensive suit fitting him perfectly, Flaherty said simply, "Fill me in."
"The four of them were playing poker, and the owner of the apartment tipped the bottle a bit too much. Halfway through the evening he took off to his bedroom. When he didn't come back out after a half-hour or so, the other three went in to see if he was OK. He wasn't. Big ivory-handled letter opener was sticking out of his chest. Deader'n a mackerel."
"Did you question any of them?"
"No, sir. They just volunteered that information, and since I knew you were on the way I figured I'd leave the questioning up to you."
"You're sure no one else could have killed him?"
"Absolutely. The only other entrance besides the front door opening into the living room is in the back, and its got three locks and a chain on it. The victim," Donaldson paused to check his notes, " Dustin Dobbin, was kinda paranoid. Same set of locks on the front door. And, this being six floors up and no fire escape, even a human fly would have a tough time getting in through a window. We checked everything when we got here. Back door was all locked up. Windows too, for that matter." He shook his head. "No question about it. It had to be one of them."
"And you checked all the rooms?"
Donaldson was offended by the question, but knew better than to show it. "Yes sir. First thing we did. The kitchen is just an extension of the living room, so that was easy to check out. Then there's the long hallway." He nodded toward the door. "Goes by here, then across the hall is the bedroom where they found the body. Further down on the same side is the bathroom. Next, on this side of the hall, is a second bedroom. Then there's a sharp turn to the right, and the hall ends up ten feet or so further at the back door. We checked every inch. No one, not even a midget, could have hidden away anywhere."
Flaherty nodded approval. "OK. Let's start the questioning. Do you have their names?"
Donaldson flipped the page in his notebook. "There's Abraham Gould, Benjamin Sheffield and Charles Waterman."
Flaherty grinned. "Alpha, Bravo, Charlie."
Donaldson seemed puzzled at first then recognized the sequence.
The Lieutenant continued, "Bring them in, in alphabetical order."
"Charles Waterman is kinda worse for wear. He was still drinking when we got here. Him and Dobbin were both boozing it up heavy. The other two are sober."
"OK. Get some coffee down him. It may not sober him up, but it should keep him awake until we get to him."
Abraham Gould was a tall, thin, intense looking individual. His long thin fingers kept interlacing and unwrapping as though they had separate lives of their own.
Name, address, occupation tumbled over themselves. "I'm a systems programmer in Dustin's firm–Softstarlight, Inc. Been there for five years." Flaherty prodded him on to describe the evening.
"It was something of a surprise for all of us when Dustin invited us over for poker. He'd never done that before. Never took much time out for anything not involving work. I suspected there was more to it than just a get-together. Everything was going along fine, but after a few drinks–I don't drink much myself–he loosened up and dropped a bombshell. He was selling the company right out from under us. And there are no golden parachutes in this outfit."
Flaherty interrupted, "If Softstarlight is so successful, won't the new company just keep everyone on?"
A wry laugh was the answer. "The world of business doesn't operate that way these days. We're being bought out because we were too successful. Buying out is a way of getting rid of competition. We'll just be closed down once the deal is finalized."
"It seems to me there's a big demand for computer people, though? You shouldn't have any problems finding a job."
"Sure, but I've invested my heart and soul in this business. Even worked for a pittance to see Softstarlight succeed. Dustin was a smooth talker. Convinced me and the others that he'd go public and give us a big slice of the pie. It sounded great. Then he double crossed us."
Flaherty smiled. "So you were pretty angry."
"You're damn right I was angry. I was pissed off to beat hell. So were the others. "I'm not sorry to see him dead–but I didn't kill him."
"Won't the business be sold anyway?"
"No. His brother stands to inherit. According to Dustin, his brother quit because of the pending sale. Didn't want anything to do with it. So he'll never go for selling the business now that he owns it outright."
"Did any of you leave the room after Dustin went off to bed?"
A vehement, "I didn't! But Ben did for ten minutes or so. And Charlie went out for even longer afterwards. I think they said they were going to the can. I was too damn mad to really listen–or care."
"Have you ever been in this apartment before?"
"My wife and I lived here for almost two years. When Dustin started the business he was looking for an apartment, and my wife and I were anxious to move into a home, so it worked out fine. He took over our lease."
Flaherty nodded and asked him to have Benjamin Sheffield come in.
His description of the evening differed little from Gould's. "I was surprised at the invitation. I've known Dustin for years. Lived here for six weeks with him while I was hunting for a place of my own. In all that time I never heard him even mention poker. I guess it was just an excuse to break the news to all of us." He seemed to be thinking about the invitation as he added, "Four-handed poker really isn't much of a game."
"Were you disturbed when you heard Dustin was selling the business?"
"Sure. But it was getting to be something of a dead end for me, anyway. I've been thinking of moving on. I'm a programmer, and the field we're working in is pretty narrow. I'd like to broaden my horizons." He grinned, "It's always nicer to quit than to be laid off. And there's no severance pay or anything like that. But I'll get by."
"Did you leave the room after Dustin went to bed?"
Flaherty nodded to the Sergeant who had been taking notes. Donaldson rose,
escorted
"Were you surprised at the invitation tonight?
Waterman shook his head, which caused his eyes to blink from the pain. Thinking better of it he simply said, "No."
A raised eyebrow prompted Waterman to continue. "There've been rumors around about what was going on. When I heard that Dustin's brother had stalked out of his office and quit, I knew we were in for a change. I was kind of surprised that Dustin had us out to his apartment, though. I've never been here before. Any important meetings were usually in his office or at some local restaurant. What really surprised me was the poker party business. I didn't even know he played cards."
"Have you been working long for Softstarlight?"
Waterman shook his head, then grimaced. "No. Dustin recruited me from
"Any promises?"
"Oh, sure. But I'm a grown boy. Been in this business for years. You learn soon enough that there will always be promises that don't pan out."
"So you weren't disappointed when he told you you were through?"
"Naturally, I was. But, like I said, that's just one of those things."
"Did you leave the room after Dustin went to bed?"
Waterman started to shake his head but thought better of it. "No"
"Did either of the others?"
"Yes. I think Abe went first. Yes, I'm sure he did. Was gone quite a while. Later Ben took off. Can't remember for sure how long he was gone."
As Donaldson closed the door behind Waterman, he glanced at his watch. Flaherty seemed not to notice. It was almost eleven. He turned to look at the Lieutenant and struggled to keep the smile from his face. "I guess the only thing we know for sure is that we're dealing with a bunch of liars."
"No one wants to be a suspect. Least of all the one who killed Dobbin. But now we know who did. Charge him. Read him his rights. Cuff him and take him in."
Donaldson's jaw fell. "Who?"
Standing up, Flaherty flicked an invisible speck of lint from his trousers, and said, "Why, Charles Waterman, of course."
"But how do you know he killed Dobbin?"
"Put yourself in the place of any of those three out there. They're reasonably intelligent–probably well above average–important jobs in a successful software firm. Now, if you killed someone in an apartment where there were only two other suspects, wouldn't you want to broaden the range of suspects?"
Donaldson looked puzzled.
A smile lit up Flaherty's face. "What would have made an investigating detective suspect that some outsider had killed Dobbin?"
Donaldson’s face lit up. "The back door. Of course. If it hadn't been all padlocked, I would have suspected someone could have crept in, killed Dobbin and then gone out the same way without any of the three knowing what happened."
"Exactly. So, as a reasonably intelligent individual, if you had been the killer, you would have unlocked that back door and left it unlocked. Right?"
The light dawned. Donaldson exclaimed, "And only Gould and
"Right."
This time Flaherty noticed Donaldson checking his watch. It was exactly eleven.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson couldn't remember when he'd taken such an instant and thorough dislike to anyone as he had to Mrs. Sadie Mickelson. It was bad enough to have been called out just shortly before midnight for what was now definitely a homicide, but here he was in this tiny hospital room, fit for only one bed but containing two, with a body in one and old Mrs. Mickelson in the other with her black eyes peering out from under slits and following his every move. She had made it clear, the moment he walked in, that the feeling was mutual.
"It's bad enough," she'd begun, by way of greeting, "with these flibbertigibbet nurses coming in waking me up to give me a sleeping pill, and now I have to put up with the police, turning on the lights, messing around, and I suppose you'll be here the rest of the night making a mountain out of a mole hill." Punctuating her next words with a toss of her head toward the corpse in the neighboring bed, she said. "This is all foolishness; the Woodsy woman just kicked off. It was her time."
Donaldson decided to wait for "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty, who was on his way, to question their only on-site witness, knowing that he, himself, would have been unable to keep his temper had he attempted to interrogate her. For the moment, he did his best to ignore the Mickelson woman, only wishing that he could reasonably charge her with the murder. Unfortunately, with her leg up in traction, she wouldn't have been able to disentangle herself from the apparatus, crawl out of bed, cover the intervening four feet, yank the hose from the oxygen tank helping her roommate to breathe and then manage to get back into the formidable equipment hanging from the ceiling.
A quick survey of the room told him nothing except that, in a hospital overflowing with patients and staff, there was no way Flaherty was going to solve this crime in his usual fifty minutes. The victim occupied the hospital cot on the left, an end of the oxygen tube still attached to her nostrils, the end which was supposed to be fixed to the tank dangling on the floor. The other cot contained an all-too-alive Mickelson who still wanted to know when he was going to get out and let her get back to sleep. The rest of the furnishings in the room consisted of a nightstand–serving both beds and holding a few tissues and a couple of glasses of water–Mickelson's cane hanging on the drawer handle, two uncomfortable looking plastic chairs, the inevitable curtains hanging from ceiling tracks above the beds, and on the walls a couple of dismal prints, both askew.
The cane suddenly gave Donaldson's spirits a lift. Was there any possible way the old termagant could have hobbled out of bed with its help? He'd have to ask the attending physician who was waiting outside in the hall consoling the night nurse, and presumably ready to answer that and any other questions.
Dr. Korya, a young, tall, dark-haired and very tired-looking individual managed a smile as he answered the question in heavily accented English. "I think you can safely cross Mrs. Mickelson off of your list of suspects, Sergeant. She was ambulatory this morning when she came in this morning hobbling along on her cane. I don't know how she could walk at all, because the artificial knee she had was encroaching on one of her leg muscle attachments. That's why we have her immobilized. It's a preoperative procedure to reduce the serious inflammation that resulted."
At that moment, Lieutenant Flaherty stepped out of the elevator, and Donaldson filled him in without waiting to be asked. "Someone went into the room after lights out and pulled the hose off of Mrs. Irene Woodsy's oxygen tank, and she died as a result. I checked the clamp, and the hose couldn't have slipped off accidentally. The nurse discovered the body at (here the Sergeant checked his notes) eleven-o-four and called Dr. Korya, here (he indicated the physician with a nod of his head), who was on night duty and asleep in the doctor's lounge. Mrs. Woodsy's two grandchildren, Geoffrey and Pamela Woodsy were here at the time, in the waiting room downstairs, and they're at the nurse's station over there with Officer Getz. Nurse Abayang just answered a buzzer from one of the rooms down the hall."
Flaherty nodded and turned to the Doctor who volunteered some background information. "Mrs. Woodsy was terminally ill. We didn't expect her to last through the weekend. That's why here grandchildren were here. They are her only close relatives."
At that moment, the nurse came down the hall, and Flaherty asked her when she had last checked on Mrs. Woodsy. Korya reached a protective arm out to the slender, attractive young Filipina and, at the gesture, Donaldson glanced over at the Lieutenant. Flaherty didn't indicate he had noticed, but Donaldson was only too familiar with his superior officer's talent for missing no details.
"I make the rounds at exactly
Dr. Korya broke in. "We're terribly understaffed. We really need two nurses on this shift. In fact, as you can see, this hospital is really an old hotel, completely unsuited for two to a room where we should have only one."
Flaherty held up his hand to stem the flow and turned back to Nurse Abayang. "Did you see anyone in the halls or coming up the stairs or off the elevator between when you finished your rounds and the time you discovered that Mrs. Woodsy was dead?"
Abayang began to speak, but Korya again broke in. "The nurse's station is completely misplaced. Anyone there can only see one end of the hall, and that doesn't include Mrs. Woodsy's room. Now."
"Please, Dr. Korya, let Nurse Abayang answer the question."
"Dr. Korya is right. I can see elevator from where I sit, but not stairs. No one came off elevator. That I am sure."
"Thank you. We'll be taking formal statements from you but, in the meantime, while we're waiting for the scene-of-crime personnel to arrive, I will want to speak to the grandchildren."
Geoffrey Woodsy could have been an attorney or a young businessman. His suit
and tie were in sharp contrast to his sister Pamela's costume, which consisted
of a pair of faded
Geoffrey's face was livid. "The hospital administration will hear about this. There's no excuse for what happened."
"I understand you were in the downstairs waiting room this evening."
"That's correct."
"And when did you see your grandmother last?"
"About nine-thirty. Dr. Korya said she might not last the night, though he couldn't say for sure. That's why I decided to stay. Granny Rena raised Pam and me after Mom and Dad were killed in an auto accident, and I thought the least I could do was to be with her during her last hours."
"Can anyone vouch for you between ten and eleven?"
"Why, of course. Pam can."
Pamela Woodsy was red-eyed from weeping and shook her head. "I was trying to sleep on one of the couches. I can't say for sure if Geoffrey was there all that time."
Geoffrey was visibly annoyed. "Well, I can't vouch for you. I went to the men's room for a few minutes. If you had been that much concerned about Granny, you wouldn't have been able to sleep. In fact, you wouldn't have been so anxious to have her taken off of life support systems if you cared about her at all."
Flaherty said nothing as he watched and listened to the rising antagonism.
"You were the one who didn't care. You know as well as I do that she was suffering like crazy. All that horrible wheezing. I'm sorry to see her gone, but it was the best thing that could have happened."
Dr. Korya came by at that moment and caught the last few words. "We aren't allowed to remove a patient from life support without their permission, and Mrs. Woodsy wasn't conscious. Without her consent, we would have to have had, at the very least, unanimous consent by her close relatives. As you can see, Lieutenant, we didn't have that."
The elevator opened and disgorged its contents–several individuals who were obviously equipped and ready to examine the crime scene. Flaherty signaled to them. "Let me take a brief look first, and then you can take over."
Donaldson peered over the Lieutenant's shoulder, seeing essentially what he had observed only a few minutes before. The piercing dark eyes fixed on Flaherty, and Mrs. Mickelson waited for no introductions. "I hope you're brighter than that flunky of yours and will get all this foolishness over with so I can get some sleep. I might as well be out on the street in a cardboard box. It couldn't be any noisier."
The Lieutenant smiled, walked in and picked up Mrs. Mickelson's cane. Standing next to her bed he extended it out and easily reached the oxygen tank by the neighboring bed. The owner of the cane snorted. "You are brighter than Sonny Boy. Well, let's hope the prison hospital has only one bed to a room. Or, if it has two, the other patient better not go snorting and wheezing and keeping me awake the way old Woodsy did."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson debated with himself. Was it worth interrupting Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty's concentration on the Monday morning crossword just to go through the previous week's unattended-death list? At that moment Flaherty caught sight of him hovering in the office doorway, held up a hand, waved him toward a chair and filled in what was obviously the last blank. With a sigh of satisfaction, the Lieutenant pushed the newspaper aside, relaxed back in his swivel chair and said, "What's to report, Sergeant?"
"Only one case, sir. And I'm closing that one." Donaldson checked his information against the first page of the sheaf he'd brought with him. "A Mrs. Wilma Chesnut. There didn't seem much reason to investigate at the time, and it turns out there wasn't. She was sixty-seven years old, a diabetic with a weak heart. The autopsy came out pretty much as expected. Heart failure during the night. We followed the usual procedure for unattended deaths–fingerprints, photos, the works. Prints on the bottle of insulin were hers. Same on the syringe and on her water glass beside the bed."
Flaherty sat up straight. "Why wasn't I told about this when it happened?"
Donaldson felt defensive as he said, "It all happened last Monday, sir. You were off at that FBI conference, so I did all the questioning–not that I expected anything wrong. It's all here. And there wasn't anything wrong." He indicated the papers as he spoke.
"Questioning? Who did you question, Sergeant?"
"Why, her doctor, of course. He was called in when Mrs. Chesnut's nurse found her Monday morning. Also her nephew who was staying at the house and, of course, the nurse."
"Let's start at the beginning. Tell me what happened. From what you say, she must have died Sunday or early Monday. So maybe you'd better begin with Sunday."
"Yes, Sir." Donaldson turned again to the papers in front of him before continuing. "Mrs. Chesnut was well enough to go to church Sunday morning. She attended St Jude's Episcopal with her nephew, Dart Fields. Sunday was her nurse's day off. She didn't get back to the house until late Sunday when she went straight to bed."
"She didn't check her patient?"
"No. She didn't think it was necessary, since Mr. Fields had lived with his aunt in the past, had more or less cared for her, and was familiar with her illness."
"You say, 'in the past.' What's that mean?"
"He just came back the day before, on Saturday, from the
"And the nurse?"
"She's from the
"To afford a private nurse, Mrs. Chesnut must have been wealthy."
Donaldson smiled to himself, knowing that Flaherty would be pleased at how thoroughly he had looked into that aspect of the case. "Ninety percent of all crimes are committed through greed," the Lieutenant had once told Donaldson. So–even when it was quite evident no foul play was involved–he had made it a point to look closely at Mrs. Chesnut's financial situation.
"Actually, she wasn't especially wealthy. Her home's very modest, and she lived frugally. She worked for years in her husband's office and was managing to get by on social security and a pension. She was even adding to her savings. Her husband made some good real estate investments, which also helped. She left a small bequest to her doctor, to the nurse and a few scattered charities. The rest–several hundred thousand dollars–goes to her nephew."
Flaherty raised an eyebrow. Donaldson didn't wait for the question before answering. "I thought of that, Sir. But he's a well-to-do businessman. Travels all over the world. Her savings wouldn't mean much to him. And the amounts she left to others are too small to be tempting."
"Let's see if we can fit ourselves into the doctor's schedule," Flaherty said, as he reached for the phone. "I'd like to have a chat with him."
On their way out, the Lieutenant stopped to talk to Officer Getz, the station's computer whiz. Donaldson didn't catch the gist of the conversation, but he heard Getz reply, "No problem, sir."
Dr. Peppard was very accommodating, though he seemed a bit amused at the fuss being made over his patient's demise. "It wasn't surprising," was his first comment when he began to describe what had happened. "Even though she wasn't very old, she's had a series of physical problems. The diabetes and the heart problems went back for years. The former was pretty much under control, since she'd learned to adjust her dosages of insulin, and I was giving her medication for her heart. It was just a matter of time, though."
"Was she taking any other medicine?"
"Not recently–except for a mild sedative I'd prescribed for her. She's had problems sleeping for some years. Nothing serious, though. The sedative is quite effective and makes for sound sleep. It's not at all dangerous, I might add."
"How about the insulin injections? Could they have had any effect on her heart?" Flaherty asked.
The doctor shook his head. "Not really. As I said, she'd been living with diabetes for years, so there was no danger of an overdose–which of course could have been fatal in her case, since it would definitely increase the heart beat."
"Would an overdose be detectable in an autopsy?"
"Really, there's no reason for thinking she could have made that kind of mistake. But, to answer your question–and I'm not a pathologist–I doubt that there would be any evidence of insulin intake other than the needle marks. After all, insulin is naturally produced in the body."
"So there was nothing to indicate anything different about her dosage this time?"
Peppard hesitated for a moment. "There was, but it's unimportant."
Flaherty simply waited, knowing that the silence would prompt an elaboration on the statement.
"The brand she used that evening was different from the one she's been currently using. Perhaps I should explain. About six months ago she changed her medical insurance program and the new one paid for a different brand of insulin–Prolog instead of Techlac. There was no problem in the shift, since the two products are identical, except for the name. But I was surprised to see that she had used Techlac this time.
"My first thought was that she'd used an old bottle she had kept. So, of course, I immediately checked the date, since it isn't a good idea to use insulin beyond its expiration date. It was purchased only recently, however. So, she must have just been caught short of insulin and bought what the nearest drugstore had on hand. As I said, it would have made absolutely no difference which of the two brands she took."
***
"Next stop is the crime scene, Donaldson." Flaherty said, settling down into the passenger's seat of the police car.
The Sergeant smiled to himself. He was now certain the "chat" with Doctor Peppard had clearly put paid to any notion there may have been that the death of Mrs. Chesnut was anything but a natural one. Speaking of her home as a crime scene seemed especially ludicrous.
On the way, Flaherty received a brief call from Officer Getz. The substance of it, from what Donaldson could make out, was that she would meet them at the Chesnut house. All very meaningless and unnecessary, so far as he was concerned.
Not surprisingly, Dart Fields was there to open the door for what were now three police officers. A notepad in hand, it soon became obvious he'd been taking an inventory of the house's contents.
"Just a few questions," Flaherty said after introducing himself.
"Sure, why not?" Fields remarked, inviting them in.
"I understand you used to take care of your Aunt some time ago."
"I didn't really take care of Aunt Willy. She pretty much took care of
herself. It was just that I was living here. Started my company, Cometwhiz.com
right here in this house. The business took off a couple of years ago. I'd been
targeting
"I left here about a year ago, and have been so busy with the business I just didn't have a chance to come back until now. I called her last week to tell her I'd be by–just for a visit. In a way, it turned out for the best. Aunt Willy and I had a chance to sit around Sunday and catch up on the past. I'll miss her."
"Do you happen to know the brand name of the insulin she was taking?"
"Yes. Techlac. I sure should know. I used to buy it regularly for her when I lived here."
"How's your company coming along, by the way?"
"Great. Booming."
"You wouldn't happen to know the contents of your Aunt's will, would you?"
For the first time, Fields began to show signs of uneasiness. "Why, yes. I'm her only living relative, and she told me long ago the bulk of her estate would come to me. Not that I really need it, of course."
Flaherty turned to Officer Getz who had taken out her notebook and looked expectantly at her boss. The Lieutenant nodded.
She began reading from her notes. "Cometwhiz dot com went bankrupt six
weeks ago. Under
***
It was on the way back to the station that Flaherty explained how Fields had almost gotten away with killing his Aunt.
"He needed the money and needed it badly. So on his way here on Saturday, he bought the kind of insulin he assumed she was still using. Knowing her heart was bad, all he had to do was to see that she got an overdose, which would never be detected in a postmortem.
"Killing her became simplicity, itself. And if she told him about the contemplated will change–which I suspected she did–he had to move fast. From the looks of his finances he needed every cent he could get, and soon. Which meant that there was no point in his just trying to borrow from her. So he was undoubtedly very solicitous, helped her with her medicine, probably doubled her sedative dosage, then waited for her to be sound asleep. As soon as she was, he gave her an additional injection of insulin beyond what she'd already taken, and carefully placed her fingers on the syringe, water glass and insulin bottle.
"Then, voila! A near-perfect homicide."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson toyed with the idea of not informing Lieutenant Flaherty about the homicide case that had come in that morning. After all, Donaldson had already solved it, was on the way to filling out the necessary forms, and the Christmas season was busy enough for the Lieutenant without piling up unnecessary work on his desk.
"I think you should tell him, Sergeant." This from Detective Catherine Kovacs. It was a comment which clearly indicated to Donaldson that he had been thinking aloud. She went on, "'Fifty-Minutes' Flaherty won't object at all to your bringing him in a done-and-dirty case. He'll give you the credit, I'm sure, since he doesn't need it on his record. He'll be proud of you, in fact. After all, you solved it in even less than fifty minutes."
Donaldson agreed, then debated with himself as to whether he should go in to see Flaherty before or after lunch.
Catherine laughed, but Donaldson knew he hadn't been thinking aloud this
time. "It's only a little after eleven, Sergeant. You'll be in and out of
his office long before
The grey-haired Lieutenant was turned around in his swivel chair observing the traffic outside his office window when the Sergeant arrived with news of the murder. Donaldson knew Flaherty preferred to hear all the details from the beginning, so he launched off with all the information he had, checking his notes to refresh his memory as he went along.
"Thelma French called our office about a week ago. She said her ex-boyfriend, Dudley Shelley, was stalking her."
"Did she explain why they broke up?"
"Yes, sir. She said she discovered he was bisexual and actually had a boyfriend living with him in his cottage."
"Anything done about the stalking?"
Donaldson acted aggrieved. "No, sir. You know how busy we are over the holidays. We just advised her to get a restraining order. Well, she got mad and hung up, but not before she said she'd take care of him herself.
"So, this morning we get a call from the lady across the hall in French's apartment building reporting that Dudley Shelley is dead in French's apartment. His head's bashed in, and French claims she found him like that when she came home."
"What did French have to say about what happened?"
"I'm coming to that, sir." He flipped a page. "She says she
left the apartment early this morning to do some Christmas shopping and was in
"Well, when she came out she didn't see anything more of him, so she finished her shopping and, right around ten, she says she went back to her apartment. As she went into the building, she met her neighbor from across the hall, a Mrs. Sally Rehner. They went up the stairs together. French says she went into her apartment, closed the door and started for the bedroom. That's when she saw the body on the floor by the couch–according to her. She screamed and ran out of the apartment. Mrs. Rehner was still fumbling with the key to her own apartment, so they went in together, and that's when Mrs. Rehner called the police."
"Does Rehner confirm French's story?"
"More or less. She didn't hear any scream or any other sounds from French's apartment, but she's pretty deaf. She's got a bad case of arthritis, too, and it took her a while to unlock the apartment door."
"Long enough for French to have killed her boyfriend?"
Donaldson grinned. "That wouldn't have taken but half a minute. His head was bashed in with a tennis trophy. French's living room is full of them. She was a top amateur player at one time. Still pretty good from what I hear."
"Time of death?
"Deputy coroner makes it about the time French got there. Certainly no more than a few minutes beforehand from the condition of the blood on his head and on the trophy."
"What was the crime scene like?"
"No signs of breaking and entering, or of a struggle. Shelley still had the key to the apartment–according to French, and we found it in his pocket. We also found this." From a manila envelope he removed a plastic bag containing a card.
Flaherty examined it. On one side it was a
"Fingerprints?"
"His and some kid's. Probably a kid who rummaged through the cards at
Flaherty looked skeptical. "Are you sure it's her handwriting?"
"Aw, Lieutenant, you know there's no way of being sure about block letters."
"Any prints on the trophy?"
Donaldson shook his head. "Brand spanking clean. Not a trace on the statue or the marble base. Only one in the apartment that was clean, by the way. She isn't much of a housekeeper. All the others are thick with dust."
Flaherty pushed himself up from his chair. "O.K. Let's go."
"We've still got her in the interrogation room."
Flaherty seemed puzzled, then said, "No. We're going to
The department store was brimming over with Christmas shoppers. Flaherty and Donaldson had to push their way through the crowd toward the Santa Claus display. Santa was busy with his predictable long line of eager children while his elf, a small boy not much older than the youngsters he was herding, was helping to point them in the right direction. Flaherty beckoned to him.
"Son, did anyone ask you to pass a note to someone else in the crowd this morning?"
The boy, an attractive ten- or eleven-year-old, smiled and nodded his head.
"Was it a man or a woman?"
The boy hesitated. Flaherty managed a stern expression and showed him his badge.
"A man–but he said to say it was a woman. He gave me ten dollars to give the note to a guy standing on the other side of the crowd, and to tell him it was from a woman."
Flaherty raised an eyebrow. "You would lie for ten dollars?"
The boy gave him an answering grin. "He didn't know it, but I woulda lied for five."
"Notice anything about his hands?"
A headshake. "Nope. He was wearing gloves."
"Can you remember what he looked like?"
"Sure. I wouldn't have any trouble remembering someone who gives me ten dollars. He was tall. Blond hair. Needed a shave. He had a mustache. And glasses. Do I get to see a lineup?"
"Maybe. Maybe not." Flaherty reached for his wallet, passed the boy a five-dollar bill, and said, "The truth's cheaper. You don't have to remember what you said."
As they left, Flaherty asked the Sergeant, "Got the address for Shelley's house?"
Quickly checking his notes, Donaldson produced the answer. When they arrived, a knock on the door revealed a disheveled, unshaven, blond young man wearing glasses and an untrimmed mustache.
On the way back to the station, with the prisoner following in a patrol car, Donaldson could restrain his curiosity no longer. "What tipped you off, Lieutenant?"
"The time, Donaldson. French had time to kill Shelley, but nowhere near enough time to clean the fingerprints completely off that statue. You've seen how there are all sorts of surfaces that would have to be wiped off–and from what you said, the trophy would have needed a lot of wiping just to get the dust off. And, why the card? If she wanted him to meet her, why bother to write him a note? So Shelley's live-in saw him stalking her, got mad, decided to kill him and do it in a way where she'd get the blame.
"The defense will probably argue he didn't intend to kill Shelley, that he just intended to confront him, that the killing was done in the heat of passion. But that's their problem, not ours."
"But how did the murderer get into the apartment?"
"Lots of possibilities. He had plenty of opportunities to copy the key. Or he could have used Shelley's key, arrived at the apartment first and then slipped it into Shelley's pocket after killing him. Or maybe he just followed him to the apartment and walked in after seeing him go in. The main thing was that he was stalking Shelley while Shelley was stalking French–and he was jealous as all hell."
Detective Kovacs greeted them as they entered the station. "What took so long, Sergeant?" she asked. "We're going to have to rush to get in an hour for lunch."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was pulling out of the station parking lot when he spotted Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty starting up the front stairs. I might as well get him off to an early start, the Sergeant thought with amusement, as he pulled over to the curb and caught Flaherty's attention.
"There's been a shooting out at the Leverett Stables, sir. I'm on my way there."
Once Flaherty had settled himself comfortably in the passenger seat, taken out the morning paper and started in on the crossword, Donaldson figured it was time to tell him what had happened. Others might have been annoyed at Flaherty's seeming lack of attention, but Donaldson had been around his boss long enough to know he could listen to and absorb the details of a case while doing the crossword or while engaged in just about any other kind of activity.
Unlike many homicides, Donaldson was eager to get to the scene of this one. He had never been out to the Leverett Stables, but knew the sixty-acre ranch sitting right in the middle of an exclusive residential area was the lavish possession of a multi-billionaire racing enthusiast who now had a horse–Coldstream–odds on favorite to be the winner of this year's Triple Crown.
"Sergeant Brill on the night shift got the call," he began giving the details of what happened. "From what I can make out, he has things pretty much under control. Deputy coroner and scene-of-crime crew have been out and are finishing up. Victim is Patricia Campbell, wife of Truman Leverett's trainer. The couple live in quarters above the stables. It was early morning, just around daybreak, when shots woke up the household–well Mr. Leverett and Mr. Campbell, anyway. They found Patricia Campbell dead–shot in the chest–in Coldstream's stall."
Flaherty looked over at his companion. "Weren't the Leverett stables a botanical garden at one time?"
"They sure were. Mrs. Campbell is the one who had the money–and the land. It was the old Kimbersley estate. She inherited it all and married Truman Leverett. I imagine he's the one who turned it into a luxury horse-farm. And, from what I hear, it's really fancy."
Donaldson wasn't disappointed by the sight that greeted him when he arrived at the stables. The lights illuminating the mansion, stables, training track, outside stalls, pasture and the dozen or so cars, trucks and police vehicles on the parking lot were still blazing away, though the sun was about to break over the eastern horizon. Sergeant Brill met them and led the way toward the enormous stables, giving Flaherty a running commentary as they went.
"Truman Leverett, the owner, got up early and had just switched on the coffee maker when he heard shots coming from the direction of the stables, and then the horses set up a terrific racket. It was still dark, but there were a couple of yard lights on, so he ran across, met William Campbell–the trainer who lives above the stables–coming down the stairs. They headed right for Coldstream's stall–for good reason. He's a mighty valuable animal. That's where they found Mrs. Campbell. She was in the stall with the horse, lying on the floor with two shots to her chest. She had to have died instantly. Not surprising, considering the size of the gun that was used."
"Mr. Leverett called nine-one-one, and we got here within ten minutes of the call."
Flaherty nodded acknowledgement as they worked their way past stall after stall of nervous horses. There was little doubt as to which one had been Coldstream's. The scene-of-crime crew and the DC were packing up, and two ambulance attendants were waiting for the signal to remove the body.
"Two shots to the chest," the DC remarked, the moment he saw the Lieutenant. "Either one could have killed her. My guess is she was standing just about where she's lying right now and turned to talk to someone on the other side of the open half door. That someone shot her twice, dropped the gun, and that's all there was to it."
"Fingerprints?" Flaherty turned to Sergeant Brill.
"None on the gun. It belongs to Leverett. A big brute of a forty-five. Old army service revolver. He had it in the drawer of his desk in the study. Says he hasn't used it for months. Officer Getz is finishing up the dusting, by the way. She says there are fingerprints all over. Says she's glad she doesn't have to do horse-muzzle prints, because there are plenty of those around, too. She should be done in a few minutes."
"Where's the famous horse?"
Brill seemed uncomfortable as he answered the question. "Mr. Leverett and the trainer were pretty upset about the horse. Said something about his having bruised himself, and they took him out of the stall right away. Mr. Leverett called the vet, and he got here just about the time we did. Two vans from the vets. I guess that's an important horse. They're still working with him."
"Who else was at the ranch when the shooting occurred?"
Relaxing, now that the disturbance of the crime scene was no longer the topic, Brill answered, "Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, Mr. and Mrs. Leverett, and that's it. There's a maid who comes in during the day, and a cook who comes in once in a while, and at least a half-dozen stable hands who left around five. Do you want me to get Mr. Leverett or the trainer? I questioned them some, but I know you'll want to get their stories firsthand."
"Have you spoken to Mrs. Leverett?"
"Yes, sir, but just briefly. She's a late sleeper, and wasn't even up when we got here. I guess the sirens made enough noise to wake her up, even though we tried to keep it down, because I met her at the door. She looked like she was still asleep. Mumbled something about getting dressed after I told her what happened."
"Let's start there first." Flaherty said, leading the way to the house.
Margaret Leverett was wide-awake by the time they knocked on the door. While the introductions were going on, Donaldson estimated her age at somewhere in the mid-forties, her height at less than five feet, and her general appearance as someone who had never encountered hard work in her life. Almost fragile in appearance, the society hostess qualities showed almost immediately. "Would you gentlemen care for coffee? Truman put some on when he got up, but I think it's still fresh enough to be palatable." Sergeant Brill demurred, excusing himself to go back to supervising the crime scene. Flaherty accepted the offer and followed the hostess in the direction of the kitchen.
At her proposal to serve the coffee in the spacious living room, the Lieutenant shook his head. "No, please. This is just fine." As he spoke, he pulled up a chair, with Donaldson following suit. Glancing about his surroundings, the latter was impressed with how much it looked like an ordinary middle-class kitchen, in contrast to the luxurious exterior of the building and the equally lavish living room they had just passed through.
Various kitchen appliances were strewn along the counter, a large cook top stove flanked by stacked conventional and microwave ovens occupied one section of a wall, with a large Sub-Zero refrigerator, festooned with magnet-held notes, taking up much of the rest of that space. Except for its size, Donaldson observed to himself, it wasn't much different from his own kitchen at home.
As Mrs. Leverett poured, she commented, "I'm afraid there isn't much that I can tell you. I'm a late sleeper." She smiled as she sat down. "Ear plugs and an eye mask are essential around here. Everyone else, including the horses, are up and around by dawn. I wouldn't have awakened yet, but I must admit that police sirens have a way of penetrating the deepest sleep. Sergeant Brill–that is his name isn't it?–caught me when I was still only half-awake. It was really difficult for me to comprehend what had happened. Even more difficult to believe it."
Donaldson had taken his note pad out and was quietly taking notes while observing the speaker. Sitting, she seemed even tinier and more fragile than when she stood. Small hands seemed barely able to hold the coffee mug. At the same time, he was thinking to himself that Flaherty was using his typical approach to witnesses. If they talked, let them talk. Mrs. Campbell was doing an excellent job of doing just that.
An occasional nod of encouragement from the Lieutenant was all she needed. "I arrived home late last night. It must have been near twelve. I'm a member of the Governor's Hospital Commission, and we had a late meeting. It was an emergency matter. Bill–that's William Campbell, Truman's horse trainer–let me in. You have to call at the gate, and he had to open it for me by remote. Our gate openers don't work when the security system is on," she added in explanation.
"I was exhausted, so I went right to bed. The next thing I knew, sirens were blaring. When I took off my eyeshades, the room was ablaze with blue lights in spite of the closed curtains. I managed to throw something on and make it downstairs before the officer knocked and told me what happened."
"Was Mr. Leverett up when you arrived?"
"Oh, I really can't say. We have separate rooms, since we keep such different hours. My heavens, he sometimes gets up at three or four to go out and see his horses. I'm afraid that's a part of his life I don't share. Horses are not my favorite creatures. And Truman is not much into fundraisers, which–as you may know–is really my life. I have to pry him loose from the farm to attend any of them, and then he generally has to leave early to look after an ailing fetlock or some such thing." At this point she gave a small sigh. "Yes, I'm afraid we're something like ships that pass in the night."
Having gotten permission to use the kitchen as a temporary interview room, and with Mrs. Leverett's departure–presumably to catch up on her lost sleep–Flaherty turned to Donaldson and asked, "What do you think?"
Surprised at the question, the Sergeant paused, checked his notes, then said, "I think she did it, sir."
"Really? What makes you say that?"
"There's a security system, so it doesn't look like we have more than three possibilities. Campbell and Leverett alibi each other. They met at the entrance to the stable, Campbell coming down the stairs, Leverett entering the outside door. I suppose they could have been in it together, but that seems very unlikely. So that leaves only Mrs. Leverett. She got up early, took the gun from the study, went out and waited until Mrs. Campbell was in the stall with Coldstream, shot her and then went back to the house, probably through one of those French doors, while Leverett was coming out the front to see what the noise was all about."
"The problem with that is that either of them could be lying. Campbell might have been on the way back up the stairs after murdering her, hears Leverett coming and started back down to meet him at the door. Same thing for Leverett. And, speaking of him, bring him in, and I'll see what he has to say."
The Leveretts must have been an odd couple when together. Truman Leverett was at least six-four, had an enormous frame, and though Donaldson was hardly a small person, his hand almost disappeared in Leverett's when they shook.
Leverett's voice boomed as he entered the kitchen. "There's more coffee there, folks. Help yourselves. I guess I should have spoken to you earlier, but I told the first officer who arrived pretty much all I knew. I was pretty upset. Coldstream's condition was what had me worried. Vet says it's only a minor stall bruise, fortunately.
"Could have been serious, though. Racehorses are nervous creatures. Now you take some old hunter. You could fire a cannon next to his ear and he wouldn't twitch, but those shots about drove my horses crazy. You wouldn't believe the racket they were making. And poor Coldstream was in an absolute panic. It was all Campbell and I could do to quiet him down. He's still prancing around out there like a terrified colt."
"I understand you have an extensive security system in place here."
"You bet. I couldn't afford to take chances with a horse like Coldstream. Did you ever hear what happened to Phar Lap?"
Donaldson had vague memories of a champion horse having been poisoned before a big race. Flaherty's face didn't indicate whether he recognized the reference, though the Sergeant assumed it was something he must have run into in the course of his crossword puzzle solving.
Leverett didn't wait for an answer to his question. "Nope. I wasn't taking any chances. Periphery of the farm is equipped with motion-sensing devices. Campbell turns it on after the workers leave. State-of-the-art. Security company says it's just about foolproof, though I guess you'd expect them to say that, since they installed it." For some reason, the easy flow of words suddenly stopped.
The Lieutenant took advantage of the break. "Were you the one who shut it down this morning?"
The answer was slow in coming. "I intended to, but I found the switch open when I got there. I meant to ask Campbell about that, but there was too much else going on. I guess I just forgot."
"Do you have any idea who might have killed Mrs. Campbell?"
"None. But it must have been someone who broke through security. There can be no other explanation."
"How would they have known about your gun?"
Leverett shrugged. "Just about anyone who has ever been in the house would know. Any of the grooms, the vet, house guests. Whoever. Not much point in having a gun for protection unless the word gets around that you have one. But I haven't shot it in months. Last time, I picked off a squirrel in one of the oaks out back."
"You seem very concerned about your horses, especially Coldstream. Were you certain you could trust your employees?"
"Without question. The day crew are all long-time employees, and nothing could be done while everyone's around, anyway. As for Campbell, he's been with me for years, since way back before I was married, when I owned only one horse. Patricia was his second wife. They've been married only a couple of years, but you didn't have to be around her much to know she would never hurt a horse. Lord how she loved them. As much or more than Campbell and me. That's undoubtedly what she was doing in the stables so early–currying them and petting them and making over them. She used to spend hours doing that."
"I take it your wife doesn't share your interest in horses."
A snort was the answer, followed by, "Frankly, I think she hates them. But then she's never objected to my having them, and I don't complain about how she leads her life. We go our separate ways."
There was a long pause before Flaherty asked, "Were you having an affair with Mrs. Campbell?"
The answer was an immediate and vehement "no"!
After Leverett went back to his animals and the vet who was still out there with his assistants, the Lieutenant turned to Donaldson. "Well?"
"No question about it, sir. He sure was having an affair with her. No one could look and act that guilty who wasn't. So you were right. He killed her, probably because she was going to tell his wife and he would have lost everything. He was just leaving when he heard Campbell coming down the stairs, so he acted like he'd just come from the house. Then he disabled the security system, while Campbell was busy trying to quiet down Coldstream, to make it look as though someone could have come on the property and done the killing."
"Good thinking, Donaldson. But any of the three people here might have pulled that switch. And, before we make any final decision, maybe we'd better talk to Campbell."
William Campbell was as tall as his boss, but probably weighed half as much. What there was of him was solid bone and muscle. His large hand not only enveloped Donaldson's but left an ache behind.
Lieutenant Flaherty's first words were, "I'm very sorry about your wife."
A nod was the only acknowledgment.
"Any idea who might have killed her?"
A shrug was the answer this time, followed by a pause, then, "Mr. Leverett puts a lot of trust in that security system, but I don't think much of it. Anyone who knew anything about it could get around it."
"Did you close the switch on it last night after letting Mrs. Leverett in."
"Yes. Switch is right by the intercom connecting to the gate. I wouldn't have forgotten."
"How long have you been working around horses?"
Campbell's expression softened. "All my life. Horses are better than people. If you know 'em, you can trust 'em. With people, you never can really know them."
Once again, the interviewee's departure was followed by Flaherty's "Well?" addressed to his subordinate.
"You didn't have to ask him if he knew about Leverett and Mrs. Campbell. You could tell he knew. My guess is that it was the talk of the ranch. He must have figured she was going to meet Leverett in the stable, so he went down and killed her. Left the gun there on purpose to make us think it was Leverett who did it. Yes, that's what happened."
At that moment, Officer Getz knocked on the doorframe to catch their attention.
"Yes?" the Lieutenant asked.
"I finished dusting, sir. Last thing I did, I checked the trash. Found this." She held out a plastic bag holding a single torn sheet of notepaper. Handling it carefully, Flaherty, with Donaldson leaning over his shoulder, could make out the words from a mutilated four-line message: The initial "P" was on the first line. The second line read, "Will meet you at." The third line, "usual time." An initial "T" was on the last line.
A sigh broke from Donaldson. "He set it up. He told Patricia Campbell to meet him at the stable. It was Leverett, after all."
Flaherty looked up at Getz. "Only one set of fingerprints on the note, I take it?"
She seemed startled. "Yes, sir. But how did you know?"
It was Donaldson who got the full benefit of the explanation on the ride back to the station.
"I still don't understand, sir. How could there have been only Leverett's fingerprints on the note to Patricia Campbell."
"Very simple, Donaldson. The note wasn't to Patricia Campbell. It was to Mrs. Leverett."
Donaldson looked completely mystified. "But her name is Margaret."
Flaherty reached into his coat pocket to pull out the newspaper, saying, "What's a very common nickname for Margaret?"
Donaldson's eyes flew open. "Peggy!"
"Right. Remember, these people lived separate lives. You undoubtedly have problems with your wife about odd hours. How do you communicate with her when you have to take off while she's still asleep."
"I scribble a note. And to be absolutely sure she reads it, I leave it on the fridge door."
"No different with the Leveretts. Undoubtedly the full note had something to do with his attending one of her fancy fundraisers. She took it off the fridge while wearing gloves, tore it carefully to leave that ambiguous message, then waited for the right moment to make use of it. She knew about her husband's affair, as apparently everyone else did, and she made up her mind to put an end to it, maybe more from resentment at the openness of it than jealousy. She also knew that Patricia Campbell regularly got up early to groom the horses. She may have tried more than once, if Patricia wasn't there the first time. When it paid off, she killed her rival, crumpled the note and threw it in the trash knowing the police would find it and assume, correctly, it had something to do with the murder. She assumed, incorrectly, that the note would convince us her husband was guilty.
"But why did she disable the security system then?"
"She didn't. Her husband did, since he suspected, right from the minute he found the body, that his wife had killed Patricia Campbell. Disabling the system, he thought, was the only way of diverting suspicion from her. It didn't occur to him that he needed to divert suspicion from himself. As for Mrs. Leverett, once she shot Mrs. Campbell, it was easy for her to slip out through the back door of the stables. But, like her husband, I knew almost immediately she was the only one who could have done it."
"Why is that, sir?"
"Can you picture either of those two horse-loving men shooting off that forty-five in a stable full of nervous race horses, never mind in a stall with that prize animal in it? No way. Only someone who didn't know about horses, didn't care about them and never gave them a thought would have done that.
"That doesn't mean I wasn't pleased to have her confess. I had visions of hunting through the house's septic tank for a pair of tiny gloves that might still have powder residue on them. Damn!"
Donaldson took his eyes off the road to look at Flaherty, who said, "I started this crossword almost an hour ago, and I still haven't finished it."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wouldn't have been surprised to see Death himself sitting at the bar in his dark robes, his scythe in one bony hand and a brimming glass of suds in the other. For a change–and appropriately–the Three Rivers Tavern, which was usually rocking with the sound of at least one boom box, a blaring TV and the sound of a half-dozen pool games going on at the same time was for the moment deathly quiet. The Three Rivers was notorious for mayhem and had three homicides to its credit already this year, but this one was especially egregious since a policeman was involved.
Sure, there was no question but that the shooting had been in self-defense. That still meant they had had to confiscate Burglary Detective McReady's gun and that he would be on paid administrative leave for a month. There would be a hearing before the Police Commission and, inevitably, mounds and mounds of paperwork would be generated by the shooting. Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty was due to arrive on the scene any minute and Donaldson knew he wouldn't be pleased, especially since there wouldn't be any crime to solve.
Much as he was used to corpses, the Sergeant didn't care to dwell on Ray Nolte's bloody body now being examined by the deputy coroner. Instead he surveyed the converted warehouse that had become the Three Rivers. The bar he was standing near was at one end, where a bored bartender was polishing glasses with a dirty cloth, while the bulk of the building was occupied by eight pool tables, all of which had been in use at the time of the fracas. At the moment, the crowd was sullenly standing around waiting for the formalities to end so that they could get back to their respective games. At the same moment, the neatly dressed, grey-haired Flaherty pushed his way into the tavern.
Without waiting for the standard "Fill me in," Donaldson greeted him and launched off into a brief description of what happened. "Detective McReady was meeting with one of his informants, Ray Nolte (Donaldson nodded in the direction of the corpse) about the Hackers."
"Who?"
"Oh. Sorry, sir. I guess you haven't heard about the burglary ring in this part of town. Whoever they are, they seem to be able to get around the security systems in homes and commercial establishments, and they've been cleaning up lately. Local merchants have been making the Burglary Division miserable about it, and McReady's been working his tail off trying to track them down. Well, today, Nolte called him from here and said he had a tip, and for McReady to come by and he'd pass it along. Naturally, he wanted to be paid. Well, the two of them dickered about the price. Nolte finally lost his temper, pulled a knife and lunged at McReady, who pulled out his gun then and shot him. That's it."
Flaherty seemed lost in thought, which made Donaldson guess at what it might be. "McReady was cold sober, Lieutenant. Breathalyzer was zero. And, naturally, they'll be giving him a blood test at the station."
"Witnesses?"
Donaldson grinned at the question. The chances of getting witnesses in the Three Rivers who would talk to the police was never very promising, so he knew Flaherty would be surprised and pleased to know that Donaldson had immediately found two solid ones. "Yes, sir. The bartender saw and heard it all. He says Nolte pulled a knife, said, 'Damn you. I'm going to slit you up from your crotch to your chin,' then lunged at McReady, who pulled out his gun and shot him."
"No one else at the bar?"
"Some earlier in the evening, but they drifted away. No one else sitting or standing there when it happened."
"So only one witness."
Donaldson's grin came back. "No, sir. There was another one. He didn't see the actual killing, but he had something better than that to pass on." Consulting his notes, the Sergeant continued. "Name's Leonard Greenleaf. He was playing pool alone at the table nearest the bar. He spoke to Nolte before the shooting, and he confirms that Nolte called McReady on his cell phone right here at the tavern."
Flaherty continued to look thoughtful. "Is he still around? I'd like to ask him a few questions."
Donaldson went off into the pool section and came back with a short, thin individual who didn't seem particularly eager to be seen talking to the police.
"Sergeant Donaldson says you spoke to Ray Nolte today."
Greenleaf looked uneasily back at the pool hall from the table where they were sitting, shrugged, then nodded.
Flaherty's voice hardened. "Start at the beginning. When were you talking to him? What did he say?"
At first still reluctant to answer any questions, the witness–obviously someone who was naturally loquacious–began to relax as the story flowed from him. "Well, everyone here knew Nolte was a pigeon. Most of the guys wouldn't even talk to him, and I wasn't specially happy to see him come over to where I was playing eight ball solo–waiting for Fatso Reilly to show up. He was supposed to a been here hours ago.
"Let's get back to Nolte," the Lieutenant interrupted.
"Yeah, sure. So he came in, let's see, it's four ain't it. Must a been right after lunch. Bout one. No later than that. Like I said, I was waiting for Fatso, just banging the balls around when Nolte came up and started talking to me. I listened, but didn't say much. He said he had information that was going to put him on easy street for the rest of his life. Well, he was a big BSer, but I wasn't doing anything else, so I kinda prodded him to tell me what the big scheme was.
"He said he'd found out who the boss of the Hackers was. Well, I didn't believe him, naturally, but right there in front of me he calls McReady. Even uses the detective's name–showing off, you know–cuz he knows I know who that is. Fact is everyone here knows McReady and how he's working on the Hacker business. So Nolte tells him he's found out who's behind the Hackers, and he tells McReady he wants to see him right away. McReady must a believed his pigeon was going to sing, because he showed up right after the call."
Flaherty seemed to be about to say something, then evidently decided not to interrupt the flow.
"They sat up at the bar. I couldn't see them at first, because there were lots of others up there, and I was busy at the table."
"How long were they here before the shooting?"
"Hour or so. Maybe two at the most. Crowd had thinned out some and then I could see the two of them sitting there. Once in a while someone would go up to the bar for a refill. Two of them just seemed to be gabbing, and I was kinda curious to find out if Nolte was going to get a payoff."
Greenleaf looked over his shoulder, licked his lips, then said, "But I didn't see what happened. I swear I didn't. The TV was roaring away. One of those dumb gangster movies. That's why, at first, I thought the shot was something on TV until I saw Nolte fall off the stool. McReady stooped down to look at him, and I could see the gun in his hand and the knife on the floor. He talked to the bartender next, I guess explaining what happened, then pulled out his cell phone, and that must a been when he called in. I couldn't hear nothin' because of all the noise–you know the TV and the boom box and the guys whacking away on the tables."
The Lieutenant nodded and said, "OK. We'll have one of the officers write up your statement and you can sign it." Greenleaf was clearly relieved.
Turning to Donaldson, Flaherty said. "Let's talk to your other witness." He got up as he spoke and led the way back to the bar where, by now, the corpse had been removed, photos had been taken, the bartender had mopped up most of the blood, and things were back to normal–more or less.
The bartender was in his sixties, with a fine head of grey-white hair. He smiled at the approaching officers. "Care for something to drink? Business has kinda slowed down in the last hour or so."
"I'd just like to ask you a few questions," Flaherty said.
The bartender leaned over the bar, "What's that?"
Flaherty raised his voice. "I'd like to ask you a few questions. Could you tell me, from the beginning, what happened between McReady and Nolte?"
"Sure. No problem. They sat here for about an hour or so, chewing back and forth. I was busy, so I didn't catch much of it. I know Nolte was asking for money. Then…"
"How much did they have to drink?"
The question seemed to puzzle the bartender. Thinking about it, he said, "I can't remember for sure. Nolte had a few beers, but I don't think I served McReady more than one. It just sat there in front of him."
"Then what happened?"
"That's when the fight broke out. If you want to call it that. They were just jawing back and forth when, all of a sudden for no reason, Nolte pulled a knife and said 'I'm going to cut you from crotch to chin'. McReady pulled out his gun and shot him. That was it."
Flaherty turned to Donaldson, saying, "Let's go back to the table."
They had barely sat down when the Lieutenant said, "OK, we'll be charging McReady with murder."
The Sergeant looked astonished. "But it was self-defense, sir. You heard the witnesses. They support everything McReady says happened. Nolte was his informant. Greenleaf confirms that. And Nolte had information for McReady and wanted more for it than the Detective was willing to pay. So they argued. You heard the bartender say he actually saw Nolte pull out a knife and threaten McReady."
"No, Sergeant. We heard Greenleaf tell us that Nolte knew who the head of the Hackers was and that he was going to be on easy street the rest of his life because of that. A single payment for a bit of information wouldn't do that. But regular payments to keep from revealing the identity of the boss would."
Donaldson's eyes opened wide. "Blackmail!"
"Exactly. And the head of the Hackers had to be someone who was familiar with the security systems installed in local business establishments, so much so that he could bypass them easily."
"McReady!" Donaldson looked completely flabbergasted.
Flaherty smiled at his Sergeant's expression. "So McReady came prepared, with a knife to plant on his victim after killing him. Nolte was terribly naïve. He thought it was safe to blackmail him right here in the open with plenty of witnesses. It took time for McReady to act. He had to keep putting Nolte off until he had the fewest witnesses possible at the bar. And I imagine he never touched his own drink. Didn't you say his breathalyzer came up zero?"
Donaldson nodded.
"He wanted to be cold sober, for two reasons. One, he wanted to have a clear head for what he intended to do. And two, he knew he was going to have to pass a breathalyzer and eventually a blood test, but he was only too willing to treat Nolte to all he could drink until the time was ripe."
"But the bartender, sir. He saw and heard what happened."
Flaherty smiled. "Do you really think he did? Let's find out." With that he rose and, followed by Donaldson, went up to the bar and in a much louder than normal voice asked the bartender, "How much did McReady pay you after the shooting to say you heard Nolte threaten McReady?"
The bartender frowned, leaned over the bar, cupped one of his ears and said, "What?"
Detective Sergeant Donaldson couldn't believe his eyes. Coming up the walk to his home was the usually immaculately tailored Flaherty–the homicide lieutenant famous for solving homicides in less than an hour–looking like a North Woods guide. Heavy hiking shoes, camouflage pants, a fishing jacket consisting mainly of pockets–all topped with a felt cap decked out with the latest in fish flies–was the surprising attire greeting the Sergeant who had committed himself to the trip with his boss.
The fact of the outing was as much unexpected as his boss's invitation for him to participate in it. Donaldson had known for some time that "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty was a fly fisherman. But the Lieutenant seldom spoke about his hobby, so the proposal to join in a day's fishing came as a surprise. In the past, Donaldson had tried his own hand at fly-fishing, with little success, but he thoroughly enjoyed plunking for the finny creatures. Having an opportunity to see Flaherty in something else besides his official role was alone enough to convince him to accept. But he had never expected this apparition.
The two-hour drive out to Needle Creek and Wild Rice Lake revealed a side of the Lieutenant that Donaldson had truly never imagined. Descriptions of prior fishing expeditions, some to such distant places as Canada's northern lakes and Scotland's highlands, were a good indication that Flaherty's outfit wasn't just for show. And the day, as it developed, went much further toward reinforcing that impression.
For Donaldson, fly-fishing had always seemed pretentious, but Flaherty soon convinced him otherwise. The Lieutenant's casting was as impeccable as the suits he ordinarily wore in his official capacity. And the fact that he was able to land his frequent catches with a barbless hook was truly amazing. His answer to Donaldson's query about the lack of keepers was simply a grimace and "I don't like fish."
The morning passed quickly as they both enjoyed the sun, and Donaldson climaxed his limit with a hefty Dolly Varden. A rest in the shade in the early afternoon, when they shared their lunches, gave them renewed energy. There followed a pleasant afternoon, where Donaldson acquired the sheer pleasure of tempting the fish, getting them to bite, subduing them and then returning them to their habitat. All of which would make this a memorable day for the Sergeant. Twilight brought about something even more memorable.
With their gear stored, and the last preparations for the return trip out of the way, the roar of a gunshot from the direction of one of the lakeshore cabins brought up the heads of both of the officers.
"Shotgun!" exclaimed Donaldson.
"And it's not hunting season," added the Lieutenant. "It may just be someone picking off a varmint. Anyway, we'd better check." He started off in the direction of the sound, calling back over his shoulder, "Be sure to bring your cell phone."
The sight that greeted them would have done justice to a grade C horror movie. A grotesque furry creature, resembling a bear, but with human-like feet was lying on the ground, bent over in a fetal position, blood flowing from a chest that had obviously been torn apart by the gun blast. There was no doubt about the cause, since an old man was standing over the body holding a smoking shotgun. While the Lieutenant went over to view the corpse, Donaldson punched in 911.
"I heard something traipsing around, grabbed my gun, and when I came out, that damned thing came right at me." The bearded old-timer announced to no one in particular, as other campers and cabin residents who had heard the shot began to crowd toward the scene.
"What in hell's going on, Ben?" An inhabitant of a nearby cabin who'd arrived first was the speaker.
"Damned sasquatch, Joe. I've been telling you people there was one skulking around, but everyone said I was drunk or nuts. Look at it!" He pointed the shotgun in the direction of the creature's face, just as Flaherty reached down and pulled off a mask.
"Jeezus!" Ben exclaimed. "It's Louis Brill."
Joe leaned over to get a closer look. "You mean it was Louis Brill. All dressed up in a monkey suit. Guess he was trying to put one over on you."
Flaherty, who flashed his badge to the now-gathered collection of onlookers, commented, "That's the last time he'll be trying to put anything over on anyone."
The local sheriff showed up surprisingly soon, introducing himself as Godwin Caldwell and his deputy, Luke Knowlton. Donaldson fully expected to see some hostility exhibited toward the big city cops intruding on the Sheriff's territory. Quite the contrary, Caldwell was pleased, loquacious, and seemed reasonably efficient as well.
Taping off the area immediately, he shooed the crowd away, most of whom he seemed to know by first names, waved the newly arriving coroner over to the scene of the death, and put his arm around Ben's shoulder, saying, "It's just a formality Ben, but I have to get your statement. Luke will drive you down to the station, type up what happened, and you can check it to see it's OK. Just sign it once you figure it's accurate, and he'll bring you right back."
Having taken care of these matters, the Sheriff strolled over to the two officers and said, "It's no surprise. That damn Louis was one of the main ones going around telling people there was a sasquatch in the neighborhood. He was always big on jokes. Worst part for me is I'm going to have to call his sister and give her the news. That's Ann Reece. Lives on the other side of the lake. Nice gal. Couldn't ask for anyone better. Always concerned about her brother.
"Now, what was I up to? OK. I know. Why don't you two come along? I've gotta check Louis's cabin. See it's locked up and stuff like that."
"Is it nearby?" Flaherty asked.
"Yup. Right behind Ben Inch's property. They been feuding for years over the line in between."
Donaldson glanced over at Flaherty on hearing that bit of information. The latter asked, "So the two of them weren't exactly friends?" They were following a marshy path toward a cabin rather nicer than the average cabin for the area. It had a well-tended lawn and attractive landscaping around it.
"Let's see. What was I saying? Oh, yup. They patched up their differences a couple of weeks ago. Must a kissed and made up. They've been sitting in Smiley's, drinking beer and giggling and laughing like a couple of schoolgirls. Heads together and acting like they'd discovered a treasure map or something. But, sure as hell, it wasn't Louie buying the drinks. He was tighter than a dog tick in the middle of a meal." As the Sheriff was talking he approached the front door of the cabin, reached above the doorjamb, removed a key and unlocked the door.
"Most of the locals don't bother to lock their doors, especially in off-season, and those that do let me know where they keep their spare key. Bet it's not like that in the big city." He pushed open the door and gestured to his companions to go in.
The most striking thing about the place was its incredible neatness. As Flaherty and Donaldson surveyed the surroundings, the Sheriff seemed confused. "Now, what was I about to say? Sure. About Louie. Not only was he meaner than hell, he was neater than all get out, too. Never got married. I told him once the reason he didn't was because he could never find a woman to keep house as well as he did.
"Now, Ben's different. He's mean, too. But not money mean. His wife up and left him because he was one bastard to get along with–like that feuding over a few feet of swamp grass and skunk cabbage. Guess it was because Louie was so tight, and Ben is just plain ornery. Whatever the reason, it was a relief to see them settle their difference. We don't have much trouble around here, and I like to keep it that way."
Donaldson stayed by the front door while Flaherty inspected the immaculate surroundings. The dozen or so books in the bookcase came right up to the edge of their shelves. Few concessions had been made to modern conveniences. Wandering through the kitchen–which contained a beautifully polished wooden stove and carefully stacked kindling by its side–he could pick out a microwave, and that was about it. The only other compromise with the electronic age was an answering machine sitting next to a telephone company-issued cord phone at the end of an orderly desk.
As the Sheriff continued with his description of one or another year-round resident, Flaherty picked up a spike paper-holder on which a large number of receipts had been impaled, all with their edges exactly aligned. "These are all numbered consecutively in pencil. Could those be check numbers? If so, it looks like he paid for about everything with checks."
The Sheriff grinned. "He always did. Even for his groceries. Said that was the only way he could keep track of his expenses. Said if everyone was as careful, there wouldn't be any of those welfare parasites around. See anything there in particular?"
"It's what I don't see, that's strange. Where's the receipt for his gorilla suit? Those are pretty expensive, but he doesn't have anything here for the past two months to indicate he bought one."
The answer to his question was a shrug. "Maybe someone gave him the suit."
"You know Sheriff, you might just be right."
Donaldson was checking his watch. He wasn't about to say anything, but they'd planned on leaving and being on the highway back to town in less than an hour. The hour was almost gone.
The Sheriff looked puzzled. "Seems to me I was about to do something." He hesitated, then said, "Now, I remember. I might as well call Ann from here and tell her the bad news about her brother. Get it over with." As he spoke, he reached for the phone.
Flaherty held up his hand before the Sheriff could dial the old fashioned rotary, reached out and pressed the replay button on the answering machine. A woman's voice came on.
"Louie. This is Ann. I got to thinking about what you said earlier today. And I don't think it's a good idea for you to go traipsing around in that monkey suit trying to scare people into thinking there's a sasquatch in the neighborhood. You could frighten some of those kids silly, and the parents will be mad as hell. It's easy enough for that damn old Ben to cook up a scheme like this and then let you do the dirty work. I wouldn't trust him. If there's trouble, he'll deny everything. Well, I hope you get this before you go out. Talk to you soon."
A trace of a smile flickered across Flaherty's face. The Sheriff picked up the phone and dialed. "Luke? Hold on to Ben until I get there. I want to talk to him some more."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson didn't envy Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty one bit. He knew the Lieutenant would much rather have been out at the crime scene that morning. He could have been there solving the murder instead of spending most of the morning at one of those interminable conferences with the Chief and the other senior precinct officers. And this case would have taken him a lot less than fifty minutes to solve. A jealous husband, an unfaithful wife, a fake burglary to cover the crime–all too easy. Actually, there was no need for Flaherty to be there for a murder where the perp was so obvious.
But, to wrap it all up, Donaldson was not only bringing in his notes to fill Flaherty in on what had happened; he'd also persuaded Lieutenant Cottersfield of Burglary to come along to his boss's office to describe the suspect's pathetic attempt at covering up a clear case of domestic murder. All in all, Donaldson was fully prepared for Flaherty's first words as he and Cottersfield sat down in the Lieutenant's comfortable office chairs.
"Fill me in."
"Yes, sir." Donaldson went through the motions of checking his notes, though he knew most of that morning's case by heart. "Nine-one-one flagged car 8 cruising Highway 34-A at eight-sixteen hours this morning. A shooting in Candlewood Terrace. They arrived at 12 Oak Street, home of James and Brendine Holt, at eight-twenty-four. Mrs. Holt was dead as the result of a gunshot wound to the back. Mr. Holt had a bruised head and was apparently dazed. I arrived on the scene at eight-thirty-seven, just behind the medics.
"I questioned Mr. Holt. He said that he and his wife were about ready to leave for work when a masked burglar came into the kitchen through the basement door. He had a gun, made them turn around, and that's the last Mr. Holt says he remembered. He found himself on the floor and heard a pounding on the front door as a couple of neighbors had heard the shot and were trying to find out what happened. That's when he saw his wife lying next to him all covered with blood. He tried to revive her and then went to the door to let in the neighbors. One of them called nine-one-one.
"I was suspicious of Mr. Holt's story from the outset, so I called in Lieutenant Cottersfield to check on the supposed burglary. He pretty much confirmed my suspicions."
Flaherty turned to face his opposite number from the Burglary Division. Cottersfield grinned. "It was pretty obvious. The Sergeant hit it right on the nose. Not only was it an amateurish job, but it was clearly inspired by a burglary that took place two mornings before at the house just behind the Holts."
Flaherty looked quizzical. In answer to the unasked question, Cottersfield nodded and went on. "For sure, Holt picked up the idea from what happened at the Kaczynski home. You must have heard about Jayne Kaczynski." A headshake prompted him to explain. "She was one of the winners of that big sweepstakes. Even split twelve ways. After taxes, she came out over three million dollars ahead. Her and her husband threw a big neighborhood party to celebrate their winnings and their departure–world cruise, new home and all that."
As he sifted through his notes, Donaldson interrupted, "Chet Broward. Not really her husband, but they've been living together for years."
Cottersfield shrugged. "Whatever. So some amateur burglar must have been reading about the winnings and was smelling all that cash. Broke into Kaczynski's home the day before. Same MO. Same time of day. Cut a pane in the basement, and was rummaging around the house when Broward caught him. Mask, plastic gloves, handgun. Broward tried to hold him and got banged up some for his effort, and."
Donaldson broke in again. "That's where Holt got the idea. Exactly the same MO." He turned to Cottersfield for confirmation, and the latter nodded. Only we've got the gun and," Donaldson looked up from his notes and grinned. "A pair of plastic gloves. Can you picture a burglar bothering to take his gloves off and leaving them behind after killing someone? This Holt guy is pathetic."
"Let's go back to the beginning," Flaherty said, "What time of day did these two burglaries take place."
"Right around eight," Cottersfield answered. "The sign of a real amateur. A lot of that white collar neighborhood work in town, and they're still finishing breakfast about then."
"Wasn't Jayne What’s-her-name home?"
"I wish I'd brought my notes," Cottersfield replied. "If I remember right, she was off to a big company party she was throwing. She's a restaurant manager or some such thing. Another farewell. I have to give her credit. She's sure enjoying her winnings in a big way. Broward owns an auto body repair shop, so he usually doesn't leave home until nine or so. That's why he was there when the burglar showed up."
"But the Holts were both home?"
Donaldson answered that question. "He's on the road a lot. Sells packaging material. This was one of his days off. She was a waitress, working late evening shift. Didn't have to be at the restaurant until six or so."
"Seems to me that neighborhood goes back to the building boom right after World War II."
"That's right, sir." Donaldson prided himself on knowing the city better than any one else on the force. "Pretty stable neighborhood. Most of the people there moved in twenty-thirty years ago. The kids are mostly grown up and gone, so now the parents are up around retirement age and getting ready to move on too. None to the kind of fancy place the Kaczynski-Browards have in mind, though."
"I take it you canvassed the neighborhood to see if anyone had seen any sign of the burglar."
Donaldson and Cottersfield looked at each other. "Go ahead, Lieutenant," Donaldson said. "You and your men did most of the inquiring."
"No one saw hide nor hair of the burglar either time. Understandable in Broward's case, since there wasn't any shot to arouse anyone. In Holt's case, several people heard the shot and rushed over, but it's possible the burglar could have gone over the back fence without anyone seeing him–if there was a burglar."
"So it's a fairly close-knit community there?"
"Definitely," Donaldson said emphatically. "Everyone knows everyone else, and that's where Holt's motivation comes in. Seems Mrs. Holt was the neighborhood punching bag. She had plenty of opportunity, since he was away so much. A couple of wives I spoke to were pretty bitter about the hanky panky that had gone on between her and their husbands. If Holt had claimed the burglar was a woman, I might have been more likely to believe him. Anyhow, he evidently didn't know about her catting around, since he's gone so often. But it looks like he suddenly found out. As usual, the husband is the last to know."
Flaherty showed little interest in the suspect, but instead had Donaldson drive him out to Candlewood Terrace. On the way, the Sergeant provided more details. "That business of lining Mr. and Mrs. Holt up and shooting her in the back made me suspicious right off. No burglar's going to shoot one person and leave the other as a witness. Nope. The only one who had anything to gain by shooting her was him, and it was jealousy, pure and simple. You know, sir, it's really amazing at the way some people think the police are just plain dumb. Who in the world would believe a story like Holt is trying to peddle?" As he spoke, the Sergeant pulled up in front of a small, fenced-in bungalow closed in on a large lot by a fence and thick shrubbery.
"There it is," Donaldson commented, as he stopped in front of the house now surrounded by yellow tape.
"Jayne Whoziz and Broward live in the house behind?"
Donaldson nodded. "We would have questioned them, because the supposed burglar could have gone over the fence and into their yard. But she was off to work to tie up some loose ends when it happened, according to one of the neighbors, and he was doing the same thing about his place of business. Has it up for sale, in fact."
"Let's go around and see if there's anyone home." Donaldson shrugged, started up the car, drove down the short street and around to stop in front of a house not much different from the Holt's home. A new SUV with temporary plates was out front, and a man was coming out with some volumes of what appeared to be photo albums. He paused when he saw the police car.
"That's probably Chet Broward," Donaldson said to Flaherty just before the two of them emerged from the car.
The Lieutenant approached the tall, burly man and flashed his wallet. Before the latter could even acknowledge the identification, a short stocky blonde woman came out of the house toward them, asking, "What's up, Chet?"
Flaherty reopened his wallet for the newcomer's benefit. "Oh, police," she exclaimed, and without pausing for breath went on, "Still looking for the burglar who killed that Holt woman. Well I can tell you that was no burglar, for sure it was one of the neighbor women who did her in, and for good reason. She was nothing but a slut. I'm in the restaurant business, and word gets around. I've heard she did more than waitressing for her customers.
"And I know for a fact she sampled more than one of the husbands on this block. I even caught her at the party making up to Chet, here. Taking him off into the corner and whispering in his ear. But I put a stop to that. Chet knows better. If he wants to keep on living the good life, he'd better walk the straight and narrow. If I ever found out he'd been having anything to do with that no good tramp or any woman, I'd have him out on his ear in no time."
It took a minimum of persuasion to have Chet Broward come to the station to make "a statement." It took only minutes more to check out his shop and learn that he hadn't been at work as he claimed when the Holt "burglary" occurred.
After Broward's confession, Donaldson was sitting in Flaherty's office as the latter explained why he suspected both burglaries were fakes. "He could have killed both of the Holts, but he knew that would mean the police would keep looking for a killer. Just killing the wife who was blackmailing him, he figured, would convince the police that Holt was the murderer. Leaving the plastic gloves behind was to explain why Holt didn't have powder residue on his hands. Damn clever, but it's really amazing at the way some people think the police are just plain dumb."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson ordinarily savored his meals, but today he hardly noticed what he was eating so absorbed had he become in the book he was reading. He checked his watch. Twenty-minutes to one, time enough for one more chapter. Just as he began it, with the book propped up behind his coffee cup, a shadow fell across the table. He was quick to hide his irritation when he looked up to see Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty with a cafeteria tray and steaming bowl of Harvey's Luncheonette's soup-of-the-day special.
"Mind if I join you Sergeant?" Flaherty asked.
The reply was unhesitating. "No, sir. Not at all, sir."
As Flaherty placed his tray on the table he commented. "That must be an interesting book you're reading, Donaldson. I noticed you were completely engrossed in it."
The Sergeant turned the book to show Flaherty the cover. "Officer Getz passed it along to me. She said it was a great read. I was skeptical at first, but I'm not anymore.
"The One-Hundred Most Famous Unsolved Cases of the Twentieth Century, by Stanton Berkowitz.'" Flaherty read aloud.
"Have you ever read it, Lieutenant?" Without waiting for an answer, he added, "I was just beginning on one of the cases. It's called "Death on the Fifty-Yard Line." It's only a few paragraphs. Care to hear it, sir?"
"Read on, Sergeant, if you don't mind my slurping away on this hot soup in the meantime."
Eagerly, Donaldson opened the book and began:
"It was a blustery, late fall day of 1928 at Soldier's Field in Cambridge. Harvard was playing Dartmouth in a home game. The weather, and Harvard's playing, had turned especially bad in the last quarter. Jerome Sebastian, a Boston businessman, class of '19 was sitting almost exactly on the fifty-yard line. His wife, Elizabeth, was on his right; his sister Mary on his left. Immediately behind him was an attorney–Sebastian's friend, and former classmate, Carlyle Winter. There was an empty seat behind Mary, but the seat to Winter's right and behind Elizabeth was occupied by Detective Sergeant Michael Buckley of the Cambridge Police Department. He was known to the others and was actually a member of the party.
"All five were heavily bundled in overcoats, woolen hats, gloves, earmuffs and blankets. The men began drinking heavily as the weather and the score worsened. Mary was a non-drinker. Elizabeth had one or two sips from Sebastian's flask. All of the men were carrying flasks of whiskey but had drunk sparingly prior to the final quarter. Sometime early in that quarter, Winter took a long drink from his flask and commented, 'I'm about down to the last drops.' He then leaned over and said to Sebastian, 'Can you spare some of yours? It might keep me from freezing to death.'
"Sebastian had just taken the cap off of his flask. He handed it that way back to Winter before taking a drink himself. Winter took it, turned to Buckley and offered it to him first, saying 'Jerry drinks only the best scotch. Try a sample.' Buckley took a short drink and passed it back. Winter had finished his flask in the meantime, then took a long drink from Sebastian's and passed it back to his friend, thanking him and saying, 'That sure warms the cockles.' Sebastian then also took a long drink, put the cap back on and almost immediately began to complain of chest pains. Within moments he'd collapsed, and Detective Sergeant Buckley said he was clearly dead by the time he had the opportunity to examine him. Since Sebastian, though still young, had a history of heart problems, the assumption quite naturally was that he had died of a heart attack.
"Later medical examination indicated that his death was indeed due to heart failure, but the autopsy–which was mandatory in the case of an unattended death–revealed large amounts of digitalis in his stomach, clearly more than enough to cause the attack. In addition, examination of his liquor flask revealed that there was almost as much digitalis as whiskey in the remaining contents.
"All the parties were interrogated separately by the Cambridge police. But, because Buckley was present at the time of the homicide, he did not participate in the investigation.
"Sebastian's description of what occurred was supported in all of its essential details by the three other members of the party. Elizabeth said she drank from the flask, noticed nothing strange, and seemed to suffer no ill effects. She said she was concerned about both Winter's and Sebastian's excessive drinking, so she watched them rather carefully after the beginning of the last quarter. She saw Sebastian hand the flask back to Winter, who then passed it along to Buckley before drinking from it, though she couldn't be sure whether or not the latter drank from the flask. Mary supported Elizabeth's statement and added that she saw Buckley take a short drink and hand it back to Winter who tipped the flask up and took a long drink of the whiskey before handing it back to Sebastian. Buckley, in turn, insisted that there was no way that any of them could have put digitalis in the drink from the time it was passed back to Winter, went on to him, returned to Winter and then to Sebastian. And, since the flask was clearly within his sight the whole time, no other flask could have been substituted for it."
Donaldson looked up from his book and said to Flaherty. "That's it, sir. The coroner's jury came up with a verdict of death under unknown circumstances, and that's where the case is to this day. I'm glad we weren't in on it. I doubt we could have provided any better answer."
"On the contrary, Donaldson," Flaherty said, pushing his tray and now empty bowl back from the edge of the table. There's no question but that Winter put digitalis in the flask before handing it back to Sebastian."
Astonishment blanketed Donaldson's face. "How could he possibly have done that with three people watching him?"
"Very simple. Most likely Winter had two flasks. He could have done with one, but two would have made his apparent heavy drinking more realistic. One flask contained whiskey, probably well watered down. The other contained pure digitalis. When he passed Sebastian's flask along to Buckley, you'll remember that Winter is reported to have finished his flask in the meantime. Perhaps he did, but it wasn't whiskey he was finishing, it was digitalis, which he held in his mouth and then spit into Sebastians's flask when he supposedly was taking a long drink of it."
"But, sir, why didn't the digitalis kill Winter?" Donaldson protested.
"For several reasons. For one thing, he didn't swallow any. For another, his heart was sound, so it was less likely to have any serious effect on him. Also, even though there may have been some absorption through his mouth tissues, he could easily tolerate the symptoms–perhaps a slight dizziness, a racing heart beat. I would guess that he had even taken small doses of digitalis previously to prepare himself ahead of time for possible symptoms. Now the only problem is motive. Unfortunately, your writer provides none."
"Oh, sir," Donaldson, said. "I should have mentioned that there was a footnote."
Flaherty raised an eyebrow as Donaldson read, "Thirteen months after Sebastian's death, Winter married his widow. Some members of the department wanted to reopen the case, but nothing came of the proposal."
Flaherty picked up his tray. "Paper's piling up on my desk, I'd better get back to work."
"Yes, sir. My lunch hour is just up. I'd better get back to work too."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson had mixed feelings as he closed the file on the death of the famous designer, Michael Howard. He was pleased to have it out of the way but, at the same time, he felt it was unfortunate that Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty had been off at a forensic conference when it happened. Since the case had been solved in less than a minute as a result of an immediate confession by Howard's wife, it would have enhanced the Lieutenant's reputation for quick solutions.
There was still the usual tidying up to do, of course. Dina Howard was due out on bail this very morning, so Donaldson would need to go out to the apartment and take the police seal off the door, and he would be dropping the file off at the records office on his way out. Would have, that is, if the Lieutenant hadn't strolled into the station as Donaldson was getting up to leave.
"I heard you had some excitement a couple of nights ago. I caught it on the news."
Donaldson held up the folder. "This is it right here, sir. Case closed. Now all I have to do is to open the apartment. I'll have to go out there myself, since we're shorthanded this morning."
"I'll tag along, and you can let me see the report in the meantime."
Donaldson shrugged, thinking of the backlog of work on his desk and probably on the Lieutenant's desk as well, but who was he to argue with Flaherty.
***
"Not much here on background–either him or the wife. Second marriage for both of them. Married less than a year. How about a summary of what happened?" the Lieutenant asked, once he'd settled in the passenger seat of Donaldson's official car and after he had skimmed through the contents of the folder.
"Not much to it. A few days ago Howard took a swing at her in his office and connected. He was all apologies of course, but she said, 'If you ever do that again I'll kill you.' The door was open and a couple of workers overheard her. Well, he made the mistake of hitting her again. They live in one of those old apartments on Bristol near Vine. You know. One of those built before all the building codes about high railings. They were out on the balcony when he slugged her. So she pushed him over–seventeen floors up."
"She was the one who called the police?"
"Uh-uh. Security did. He recognized the body and called nine-one-one. Then he went up to the apartment, and Mrs. Howard's sister let him in."
"Sister?" Flaherty asked the question as he rummaged through the file.
"Yes, sir. Her younger sister. She was staying with them between quarters at the University. Her statement's in the file."
"Hmm! Their stories don't seem to match."
Donaldson wondered, as he maneuvered the car into a parking spot in front of the apartment building, what he might have missed. Not that it made much difference. Everyone, including Dina Howard, agreed that she'd killed her husband.
"The sister says she heard her sister scream. She ran out of her bedroom and was heading for the balcony when she heard the knock on the door. Then she and the security man went out there. When the sister looked down over the rail, she could see the body lying on the pavement and a large crowd around it, including a policeman. The security man says Mrs. Howard turned to him and said, "He hit me. We struggled, and he fell over."
Donaldson gave his companion a puzzled look as they were riding up the elevator and Flaherty continued to scan from the file, "If the sister is telling the truth, then there must have been quite a while between the death and the scream announcing it. How could a crowd gather that quickly? How could the security guard have had the time to identify the body and then gotten up to the apartment so soon?"
"Oh, I see. Mrs. Howard may have deliberately pushed him over–maybe planned to do it. But what did she have to gain by not screaming right away?"
Flaherty smiled. "Good question." The elevator rolled to a stop and the doors opened. Walking through the luxurious apartment, with its large living room, dining room, kitchen and three bedrooms, he said, "Let's check out the balcony."
The balcony was some ten feet long, and not more than four feet wide, with a solid three-foot railing around it and two square wooden posts supporting the roof above it. A large flowerpot containing an artificial plant sat at one end, while a table and three chairs were at the other. Flaherty looked over the railing, then surveyed the overhang above, which contained three recessed lights. Finding the switch, he flicked it on. The response was two lights. The one over the table didn't go on.
Before going back into the apartment, Flaherty checked the folder again, pulling out a newspaper clipping with a description of the dead man and his family. "I see his father's still in business–and nearby. I think I'll give him a call."
Slipping his cell phone back into his pocket, he announced, "He'll give us twenty minutes before lunch. Let's go."
Howard senior's place of business, a brokerage house, was an impressive building with even more impressive offices. The grey-haired elderly man, the secretary steered them to, greeted them and, following introductions, waved them to seats. He was noticeably upset, and understandably so. "I really don't see the point to all this, Lieutenant. My daughter-in-law has confessed to murdering my son. What more do you need?"
"Just a couple of questions. I see by the paper that you are a retired army colonel. And your family has a long history of serving in the military. Is that correct?"
The man's face cleared. "Yes. The Howards go back to the War of 1812. We've always been proud to serve our country." He frowned, then added, "Believe me, I really hated to retire."
"Why didn't your son go into the service?"
The answer was slow in coming.
Donaldson shook his head at what Flaherty had discovered and how quickly he had done so. "Mrs. Howard next?" he asked when they headed back to the car."
"I'd rather talk to her sister first. Do you know where she's staying?"
Donaldson checked his watch. "You're in luck, Lieutenant," Donaldson said, checking his watch. "She should be at the station right now. She was supposed to show up with a bail bondsman for Mrs. Howard this morning."
He was in luck. Dina's sister seemed much younger than her twenty years and was visibly agitated at the prospect of further questioning. "I've already given my statement," she said.
"There are still a few matters that need clarification. Did you know that your brother-in-law physically abused your sister."
The agitation increased several fold. "Yes and I was furious. I told Dina that she didn't have to put up with it. She said she'd leave him if he hit her again, but I didn't believe her. I know he'd hit her more than once before, and she still went back to him. We argued, and she kept insisting she would leave him. I guess I must have gotten hysterical. Our parents died when I was just a toddler, and my sister was both my mother and father. It was just too much to see her being treated that way.
"I accused her of being a doormat. I told her that I'd heard of her threat to him, but I also told her that I didn't believe she'd ever do such a thing. I, I really. It never occurred to me that she would."
"Where were you when you heard your sister scream?"
"In my bedroom, lying down. I was still upset from our argument earlier in the day, and I'd heard Michael in the other room earlier. I didn't want to see him. I didn't want anything to do with him. It must have been fifteen or twenty minutes later when I heard Dina scream."
***
Donaldson followed Flaherty into the interrogation room where Dina Howard had been moved at his request. The slim, dark-haired woman, with a long welt on her right cheek running from her chin to her forehead stared at the newcomers.
Her look was defiant. "I'm not going to say anything more without a lawyer."
Flaherty smiled. "You won't have to. I'm going to do the talking. The night your husband died, you came out of your bedroom looking for him and couldn't find him. Since you'd heard him walking around you wondered what had happened to him. Out on the balcony you glanced over and saw his body down on the pavement. People were starting to gather. You remembered how your sister had reacted to his striking you and you concluded she had pushed him over."
"No, no, no!" She struggled to her feet as she spoke.
Flaherty waved her back down. "Remember? You weren't going to say anything without a lawyer. Well, I'm doing the talking. So you decided to take the blame, knowing that you would get off lightly as an abused wife, but your sister wouldn't be so fortunate if she came to trial. You did some fast thinking, and I must congratulate you. Striking your face hard against one of those posts raised a welt that doesn't look much like it was produced by a human fist, but it served its purpose."
Again, she made as though to stand. Flaherty motioned her back to her seat.
"What you didn't know was that your husband had checked the lights on the balcony. Evidently you were going to eat out there that evening. The light over the table was out, so he stood on a chair–maybe even the table, and that's when something else happened. You didn't know your husband had petit mal seizures, did you?"
She shook her head.
Flaherty went on, "I didn't think so. His father said his son was very embarrassed by them and that, fortunately, no one but a doctor would be aware he was having one. An abstracted look perhaps, for just the briefest of moments. That would be all. I understand he didn't drive–for good reason. And though his father would have very much wanted him to, your husband hadn't been able to join the service–for the same reason.
"As I said, the seizures were infrequent, would have had a minor impact on his life, would have been unnoticed and dangerous only if he was handling something like an automobile. But a seizure when he was standing would make him lose his balance for a moment. No great harm in that. We all lose our balance at one time or another. It wouldn't have been serious for him except when standing on a chair next to a low railing, seventeen stories up.
"So, now that you know what really happened, you can simply withdraw your confession. You won't need a lawyer for that."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson shrugged on his overcoat and was actually eager to brave the cold. Five o'clock. End of a busy but satisfying day. No mayhem to report. Quiet, even for a midweek day. Most of the routine work out of the way, chiefly because his boss had asked him to come in early to help with the clean-up.
Donaldson's call to his wife a few minutes before had been the icing. Prime rib, garnished with potatoes, parsnips and baby green peas. His favorite. "Be here by six," she'd said, "and it'll be on the table waiting for you."
Six! Why he'd be home by five-thirty at the latest, which would give him time to relax with a cold one while he watched the local news. Life did have its rewards.
He hadn't made it to the door when he heard an all-too-familiar voice. "Let's go, Donaldson. A double at 61 Worsham Place." Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty was already leading the way and was soon giving the Sergeant what meager details he had as they raced across town.
"A couple. Stabbings. Sergeant Kirsch is on the scene and they've got things pretty much under control."
And when they arrived it did seem pretty much under control. The building at 61 Worsham Place was ancient and located in an even older neighborhood. Three stories high, running to seed, but hardly a ghetto structure. There were still some attempts at maintaining a lawn and hedge, but a painting was long overdue. It may have been a single-family dwelling in the remote past, but had since been divided up into apartments and rented out by some faceless corporation. Today, its claim to fame was a large crowd of gawkers, three police cars, a yellow tape closing off the entrance to the lot, and a uniformed patrolman who greeted the newcomers with a snappy salute and far more details.
"The bodies are in the second floor apartment, sir. The Deputy Coroner was just a block away on his way home when the call came through, so he's up there now. Sergeant Kirsch has already put in a call for the scene-of-crime crew."
As they climbed the stairs, the patrolman added. "It's a bloody one."
It was. The Deputy Coroner greeted them at the doorway while Sergeant Kirsch stood by nodding in agreement as the DC explained; "I've tried to stay out of the blood. It wasn't easy. She," he indicated the woman lying across the couch, "was stabbed at least twice in the chest. Must have died instantly. He," he waved a hand at a man lying on his back near the couch with a butcher knife in his chest, "has only that wound, which is more than enough. My guess, right now, is that they've been dead between twelve and fifteen hours, but that's strictly a guess."
"As long as you're guessing, is there any likelihood we have a murder-suicide here?"
The DC paused before answering. "Possible, but unlikely. I've read about self-inflicted knife wounds being fatal, but I've never actually seen a case where that happened. I may be able to tell you more after the pm."
"If this is in fact a double homicide, would the killer have been splattered with much blood?"
"Drenched!"
Flaherty turned to Kirsch, "Who discovered them, Sergeant?"
"Actually, I did, sir. The station got a call this morning from where the woman, Gertrude Fernando, worked. Seems she's a reliable worker, and her not showing up or calling in sick worried them. The desk sergeant phoned the building manager here–he lives in the basement apartment–but he didn't know anything. He went up and knocked. No answer. Well, you know how many calls like that we get. So we let it sit until around three, when her company called again.
"Well, to make a long story short, we checked with the manager again, found out where Roddy Fernando works, and got in touch with them–an auto body shop. Same answer. He hadn't shown. That's when I got in on the act. Conners and I decided to check it out. We had the manager go up with us and knock again. He had a key. This is what we found."
"Any signs of forced entry?"
"No, sir. But that doesn't mean much. This is an old building with locks that any bright twelve-year-old with a paper clip could open. That includes the front and back doors and all the apartment doors. It's a quiet neighborhood, and crime's never been much of a problem around here."
"Who lives in the building?"
"Top floor is an insurance salesman, name's," The sergeant checked his notes. "Sylvester Naughton. Must still be at work. A widow, Mrs. Stella Ochs, has the first-floor apartment. She's hobbling around with a cane. I didn't question her, since I knew you'd be right out and would want to be the one to talk to her. Finley Minghelia is the manager. He says he didn't know anything was wrong until we opened that door. Didn't hear any unusual noises. No visitors that he knows of. But says he sleeps like a log."
By this time the scene-of-crime personnel had arrived and the usual photos were being taken. Flaherty turned to both sergeants and said, "Let's check with Mrs. Ochs, first."
Widow Ochs seemed more than happy to see them, despite what appeared to be a perpetually grim expression. Waving the three men to a worn couch, she limped after them and settled down in an equally worn recliner facing a large television set and next to an enormous radiator. No questions were needed, as she launched off into a description of her upstairs neighbors. "Not surprising. Fighters and drinkers, they were. Mostly Saturday nights."
She paused, as her expression changed. She grinned, revealing some ill-fitting false teeth. "Weekend warriors, they were. I've told Minghy time after time that he had to do something about them, but he wasn't about to, since he did his share of carousing with them. Probably drank their booze, if I know him. Cheap SOB. I'm glad he doesn't own this rattrap or it would be in even worse condition than it is. It's bad enough him doing the maintenance–if you want to call it that. He's–"
Flaherty broke in; "Did you hear anything peculiar last night?"
"I thought you'd never ask. Peculiar only in the time. They usually take their drunken selves to bed by eleven or so and then the partying's mostly weekends, like I said, so I don't mind too much. I don't get to bed myself until midnight, after the late news–not that there's much new on the news."
"Last night!"
"I'm coming to that. Keep your shirt on. My hip was bothering me even more than usual. I'm scheduled for a replacement, but I'm on Medicaid. They might as well call it Medic-non-aid. Minute the hospital hears you're on it, they move you to the bottom of the list. Well, I got up around two, partly because of my hip, but also because all hell was breaking loose upstairs."
"Did you hear any voices?"
"Yup. Man and a woman. Might have been two of each, but I can't say. I pounded on the radiator." She illustrated her remarks with thunderous effectiveness, rattling her cane across the ribs of the inoffensive piece of metal. "Didn't make much difference, and I was getting ready to struggle up the stairs and give them a piece of my mind, when I heard one big thump, then everything got quiet. My hip felt better about then, too. So I went back to bed. Didn't sleep, though. Someone started doing clothes in the washer in the basement. I've told that damn Minghy that the drier rattles this whole apartment, but you might as well be whistling in the wind, for all the good that does."
Flaherty stood up. "Thank you, Mrs. Ochs. We'll be here most of the evening, so if we have any other questions we'll be back. You've been a great help, by the way."
To his sergeants he said, as they left the apartment, "On to the manager."
While heading in that direction, a patrolman with a man in tow approached. "Lieutenant. This is Mr. Naughton. Says he's the tenant on the third floor."
Sylvester Naughton showed no surprise at all the attention being given to 61 Worsham Place, though there had obviously been no information given to him about the reasons for it.
Before Flaherty could even ask a question, Naughton said, "I knew you'd catch him sooner or later."
"Who?"
"Old man Minghelia and his drugs. He tried to sell me some. Even tried to recruit me to do some dealing at work. I suppose he was working over that couple on the second floor and they turned him in. Good for them. Well you can seal up the apartment house as far as I'm concerned. I've got enough money ahead so I can move into a decent place."
Flaherty quickly disabused him of his notion, indicating that something more serious than drug dealing had occurred in the building. He then asked the salesman where he'd been the night before and whether or not he had noticed anything out of the ordinary.
Naughton shook his head in disbelief, "I guess I really shouldn't be surprised. As for me, I didn't get in until sometime after two." He paused, then smiled. "I was celebrating a bit. Sold a nice-size policy, and lined up two more like it. Business is really looking up, and several of us from Nashby Insurance went out to the Moonglow for drinks." His expression turned sheepish. "I guess I helped close up the place. Lucky for me, it's just a short walk away, so I didn't drive. I can't remember all the details, but I made it to bed safely. Got up and left around nine this morning, after a lot of black coffee."
Further questions produced no useful information, and the three officers moved down to the basement apartment with the usual caveat to Naughton that there might be more questions later.
Finley Minghelia's apartment faced the laundry room, and Flaherty seemed more interested in that room and its appliances than in the manager. When Minghelia responded to the knock, the Lieutenant, after sending Sergeant Kirsch upstairs to bring down the scene-of-crime crew, asked the manager to follow him across the hall.
"How do these work, Mr. Minghelia?" the Lieutenant asked, indicating the ancient washer and dryer.
Minghelia seemed puzzled by the question. "Just like a laundromat, only these are old babies. You put in a quarter–actually four quarters–and you get to do a load of laundry. Three quarters for the drier. You need quarters. None of them fancy dollar changers on them."
"Who services them?"
"I do."
"How often do you empty the coin holder?"
"They're not used much anymore. Used to be some of the neighbors would come in, but people have their own machines these days. May be a month or so since I emptied the coin box
"Mind opening it?"
Minghelia shrugged, unhooked a full key ring from his belt, and managed to open the hinged door after a few unsuccessful attempts. The receptacle was empty.
As they left the building, Flaherty explained to Donaldson how he had concluded that Minghelia had killed the Fernandos.
"It was a combination of items, Sergeant. Naughton's comments about the drug dealing provided a motive for homicide. The couple may have liked their drinks, but they were reliable workers according to their employers and wouldn't have been much interested in drugs. Minghelia must have panicked at the thought that they might have intended to turn him in.
"Then the DC said the perp was almost sure to be covered with blood. And Mrs. Ochs insisted the manager was a cheapskate. Well, you can do one of two things with bloody clothes: dispose of them or wash them. That made me suspect miser Minghelia would have decided to wash rather than dispose. The sound of the drier fit in with that notion, though anyone could have been using it.
"Of course, when there were no quarters in the coin box, that was just about conclusive evidence against Minghelia, since it was obvious that only one person could have done the washing at two in the morning without putting money in the machine. The scene-of-crime people finding traces of blood matching Mrs. Fernando's blood type on the lid of the washer cinched it.
"By the way, you've had a long day. I'll get one of the patrolmen to drop me off. Why don't you head on home?"
Donaldson had almost forgotten, but now he remembered. Even if he hurried, he wouldn't be in time for the evening news, but he'd still make it home minutes before the prime rib was due to be set on the table.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wasn't a bit surprised to see Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty already at the scene of the crime. He, himself, had night duty, so he'd taken the call. The Lieutenant, on the other hand, had been home with a standing order to be notified in case of any death that could be reasonably assumed to be a homicide. In this instance, reasonable assumptions weren't necessary. A female, wearing a long red raincoat, was lying face down on the sidewalk in the pouring-down rain, three bullet holes were all too evident in the back of the garment, and blood had flowed freely to blend with the color of the raincoat.
The patrolmen who first arrived at the scene had the crowd under control. Yellow tape marked off a fifty-foot circle, and one of the officers was taking down answers to his questions under the shelter of friendly umbrellas. Flaherty and Donaldson soon ran down the sole witness to what had happened, an older man with a setter-type mongrel on a leash. Flaherty at first motioned him to his own automobile then changed his mind and led him off to Donaldson's squad car. As the air in the closed car began to immediately smell of wet dog, Donaldson realized why his superior officer had decided on a different venue for the interrogation.
Flaherty asked the questions while sitting in the back with the witness, a Dana Whitiker, while Donaldson took notes in the front seat. Whitiker turned out to be a willing and loquacious witness, though not a particularly helpful one. With only minor nudging to keep him on the topic, he described what he had seen.
"I was taking Nellie, here, for her evening walk." He nodded at the wet hound that was now lying at his feet, seemingly resigned to a long spell of conversation. "Right about this time of night, like clockwork, she brings me her leash. I can't say no, no matter what the weather. So we amble over to the District, and I walk her around the park. Good for both of us, you know.
"I wasn't too happy to go out tonight–raining cats and dogs the way it was. But Nellie was looking at me with those sad eyes, and I couldn't say no. I live over in the next block and was a couple of houses away from here when this car that had been parked a hundred feet or so in front of me–can't tell you the make–all those compacts look alike to me. Well, it roared away from the curb and crossed over to the wrong side of the street. That's when I saw this woman who'd come out of that house over there. The car pulled up behind her and I heard three shots. I wasn't sure they were shots at first, but when she fell over and the car took off, it wasn't hard to figure out what happened. Drive-by shooting for sure.
"I was an emergency-room nurse over at Bayview before I retired, so it didn't take but one look to know I couldn't do anything for her. That's when I called nine-one-one." He held up his cell phone. "People started to come out of the houses. The lady who came out of the same house as the dead woman took it bad. Started hyperventilating. Medics showed up about then with the patrol car, and they did what they could for her. There's a policeman over there with her now." He nodded in the direction of the house.
Donaldson wasn't sorry to see the witness leave and take his dog along with him. As he and Flaherty slogged over to the house the victim had emerged from, he also looked forward to getting out of the pelting rain and in where it was warm and dry. "I think he's right, sir. Looks like a random drive-by," he commented, as they walked up the front stairs. The Sergeant's opinion was reinforced by what they learned from their second witness, an attractive young woman, obviously very shaken by the event, and still having trouble breathing despite the medication she'd been given by the emergency technician. Officer Cindy Merk had just finished brewing coffee when Flaherty and Donaldson arrived. Shedding their wet raincoats, they both gratefully accepted the hot drinks.
Merk quickly filled in the major details after introducing Philippa Sousa to the two officers. "The murdered woman is from out of town, a friend of Ms. Sousa's."
Sousa nodded and, in spite of her breathing difficulties, seemed anxious to describe her friend. "Margaret Joy Wade was an old school friend of mine. I've known her since kindergarten. She came to town unexpectedly. She works for a jewelry company back home, and was supposed to fly in to pick up a package at Marx and Hamilton's and go right back. She doesn't usually do that kind of courier work, but the person who was supposed to do the pickup came down sick. She really didn't expect to have time to drop by, so she didn't call me ahead of time.
"Just about an hour ago I got this call from her. The bad weather delayed her flight and when she got in, Marx and Hamilton were closed, and you know what the hotel situation is like in this town right now with the convention and all. She asked if she could stay the night here, and I was glad to have her over. My boyfriend has a night shift this week, so it would be like old times to have her here." Sousa smiled at the thought. "Like the pajama parties we used to have."
The smile disappeared. "That's her by the way." Merk pointed to a studio photo on the mantle piece. A rather plain-looking girl stared out at the officers. "Her taxi arrived before the rain started, and it was nice to see her again. "We were having a wonderful time as she was filling me in on all the gossip from back home, when I suddenly got a bad asthma attack. I've had those ever since I was a child, but tonight it was really bad, and I'd run out of my medication. Peggy Joy volunteered to go down to the District to the all-night drug store to pick some up for me."
At that point, Flaherty asked, "Did she often visit you?"
A headshake. "No. In fact, this is the first time she'd been in town. Didn't really know her way around. I was going to drive her over to Marx and Hamilton first thing in the morning."
"Had she contacted them this evening?"
Donaldson could see the way the Lieutenant's mind was working and he smiled to himself at the thought of a reputable jeweler possibly being involved in the homicide. It's definitely a drive-by, and Flaherty's just going to have to accept that fact, he thought.
Another headshake answered the question. "No. I'm sure they didn't even know she was coming. It was a last-minute decision on her boss's part. Of course, he may have called and told the jewelry store she'd be arriving." A pause. "But then, she was hours and hours late."
"Do you have any idea if she told anyone she was staying here tonight?"
Sousa's breathing was becoming increasingly labored, and Officer Merk looked concerned. The answer was slow in coming. "I'm sure she would have told me if she had. I'm also quite sure she didn't know anyone else in town."
"Did you tell anyone she was going to be here?"
"No. I had no reason to. As I said, my boyfriend was working late, and he planned on going to his own apartment after work to catch up on his sleep."
Donaldson looked up from his notes and observed that the Lieutenant was looking puzzled. To himself he decided Flaherty just didn't want to admit to the fact that the homicide was a drive-by–pure and simple. The next question seemed especially desperate.
"Did you call your boyfriend or did he call you after your friend arrived?"
For the first time, Sousa seemed uneasy. "No. I didn't have to. As I said, he wasn't coming out anyway." She paused for a moment before adding, "But Harry Camp called."
Flaherty said nothing, waiting for further explanation.
"He was stalking me and I got a restraining order on him."
Officer Merk broke in. "I was at the precinct when Ms. Sousa came in about the order. We looked up Camp. He's got a long record of violence."
Sousa nodded. "He wasn't even supposed to call me. He sounded terribly angry. I just slammed down the phone without saying anything, but it kept ringing. I'm sure that's what gave me the asthma attack."
"So that was after your friend arrived?"
"Yes. In fact it was just minutes before she volunteered to go out to get me the medicine. It was raining so hard, I didn't think she should go, especially since she didn't even have a raincoat."
Flaherty broke into a smile. "So you loaned her your red raincoat. Right?"
Sousa's head nod convinced Donaldson that he'd been wrong about the drive-by.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson turned up the car radio to catch the message repeat he had asked for. Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty was in the passenger seat, seemingly lost in thought.
"Sounds like O'Brien's covering," Donaldson commented. "I can't remember ever hearing about a body out in the Fairwood area. Pretty fancy homes out there. Must be just an accident." He glanced at his watch. Eleven-twenty. With luck–and if the Lieutenant didn't think of something else to do–he could drop him at the station and be home before midnight.
No such luck!
"Maybe. Let's run out that way and take a look."
It was obvious when they arrived that the police and ambulance had gotten there only a short while before. And no crowd had gathered. None would be expected in this exclusive, sparsely occupied subdivision. Two patrol cars had their searchlights trained on the heavy metal gate and the still and bloody form of a woman at its base. A sleek Cadillac with a smashed headlight and crumpled fender was standing back some six feet from the victim. In one of the police cars, his legs dangling out of the open door, a middle-aged man with his face cupped in his hands was sitting in the back seat.
Sergeant O'Brien recognized the newcomers and hurried over to their car. Flaherty made no attempt to get out, simply rolling down his window and looking quizzically at O'Brien.
"It's all under control, Lieutenant," the latter said. "Mrs. Lockhart got out to open the gate. Mr. Lockhart put the car in reverse–at least he thought he did–to give her room to get to the gate. He says he turned around to see where he was backing to and shifted into the wrong gear."
"Jonathan Lockhart?" Scene-of-crime personnel were rolling up in a van and scrambling out with their equipment even before the vehicle had come to a complete stop.
O'Brien nodded. "The electronics billionaire himself. All that money doesn't mean anything when it comes to accidents."
"All that money should have bought him a gate opener." Camera flashes lit up the scene. The deputy coroner was stooped besides the corpse.
"Oh, he had one, Lieutenant. Clipped right to his sun visor. It just didn't work, and the keypad on the entrance post wasn't responding to the code. I checked both of them out." O'Brien waved a hand at the code box standing to the left of the gate. "Mr. Lockhart said he called the company today, and they were coming out tomorrow to fix it. Gate's brand new. Hasn't been up more than a week."
"Manual override?"
O'Brien nodded again. "It's a pushbutton hidden just inside the gate. Releases the lock. That's what Mrs. Lockhart was searching for when the car crushed her. Mr. Lockhart says he couldn't believe what happened. He managed to back the car away, and then when he got out all he could think of was to go for help. He thinks she was still alive and he was afraid to move her, but he managed to open the gate and, even though he has a bad leg, he made it up to the house. It's three or four hundred feet up the driveway, so it must have taken him quite a while to get there. He phoned nine-one-one. We got here just as he was getting back down."
"Guess I'll take a look," Flaherty said, as he eased himself out of the car.
By then, Donaldson had come over to commiserate with O'Brien. "I don't think the Lieutenant agrees with you about it being an accident."
O'Brien snorted, but quietly enough so that the Lieutenant wouldn't overhear. "Fifty-Minutes Flaherty won't need any fifty minutes to solve this one. It's an accident, pure and simple." Pausing, he added, "If it isn't, we'll sure never be able to prove it's anything else but."
The two sergeants watched Flaherty, expecting him to go over to the gate where the deputy coroner was making a final, quick examination of the victim. Instead, the focus of his attention was the inside of the Cadillac. In a moment he had taken something out of the passenger side, a purse, and was walking over to the sobbing figure sitting in the patrol car.
Lockhart looked up at the approaching figure. "Lieutenant Flaherty," the figure introduced himself. "I…"
"I've already explained what happened, Lieutenant," Lockhart interrupted.
"Just a couple of questions."
The blue, flashing light of the patrol cars gave an eerie pallor to Lockhart's tearful face. He nodded, without looking at his interrogator.
"Did you wife drive?"
Lockhart looked up and seemed puzzled by the question. "Of course. But not this car. She never learned to handle a stick shift. She has–had. She drove her own car, a BMW convertible. Automatic." While they were speaking, the ambulance driver and his assistant wheeled the gurney carrying the shrouded body to the back of their vehicle. As he headed back to his car the deputy coroner waved to Flaherty, and one of the uniformed patrolmen closed the massive gates.
"And this is her purse?" Flaherty held it up for inspection. Lockhart nodded. The Lieutenant then turned and went back to the car he had arrived in, signaling to Donaldson to flash a light on the hood while he emptied the contents of the purse onto it. A mass of items fell out. From the pile, the Lieutenant picked up an envelope addressed to Michelle Lockhart at a post office box address. Carefully removing the enclosed letter, he scanned the half dozen pages, refolded them and returned the letter to the envelope.
The next object he handled was a small cell phone. A smile crossed his face. The last item he examined was a gate opener. Turning toward the gate, he pointed the opener in that direction, pressed the button, and the gate dutifully responded by swinging open.
On their way back to the station, Donaldson couldn't resist asking. "What made you suspect Lockhart of deliberately killing his wife, Lieutenant?"
"Do you know any successful businessman who doesn't carry a cell phone along with him everywhere he goes? Especially if he's a successful electronics magnate? He deliberately left it at home so he wouldn't have it when the 'accident' happened. And I remembered he came up through the ranks, engineer or some such thing, so it would have been an easy thing for him to fiddle the gatepost keypad as well as his own opener. What he overlooked was that his wife carried her own opener and cell phone in her purse. After all, driving a convertible you learn pretty early on not to leave anything of any value lying around loose. Certainly not a gate opener clipped to a sun visor or a cell phone in the glove compartment."
Donaldson looked completely baffled. "But if she had an opener, why didn't she use it?"
Flaherty laughed. "Sergeant, that's exactly why I know he killed her. She never had a chance to do the obvious thing; when his opener failed, to just reach into her purse and try hers. No. He never gave her a chance to do anything. He just stopped in front of the gate, then hit her with something hard, maybe a chunk of steel left over from the gate that was just installed. Whatever it was, I'm sure we'll find it somewhere between the gate and the house. Then he hauled her out, draped her over the car radiator and rammed her into that heavy gate while she was still unconscious. Afterwards, he checked to make sure she was dying and took his own sweet time going up to the house to phone the medics.
"But what was his motive? Why did he want to kill her?"
"Ah! The letter in her purse. A steamy-hot love letter, from someone named Tom, counting the days until she filed for divorce and left Lockhart. Well, Lockhart may not have seen that one, but he must have seen others, or somehow knew what was going on."
"So he decided that if he was going to lose his wife, nobody was going to have her?"
"Right. And maybe it was even more important to him not to lose half of everything he owned."
Donaldson pulled up at the station, checked his watch, and decided he'd be able to make it home by twelve-thirty.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson should have known this was going to be an impossible day. At least, that's what he'd told himself early that morning shortly after leaving home. Two good days in a row were just too much to expect. And yesterday had been one of the quietest ones in memory down at the station, so quiet in fact that he had even been able to sign off on the crime reports to the FBI.
Best of all, being on the early day shift, he had had to contend with little traffic on the twenty-minute drive home. His wife, Catherine, who had arrived only a few minutes before him, had even commented on his good mood. He hadn't realized he'd been humming "Happy Days Are Here Again," as he came through the garage door into the kitchen.
And the rest of the evening had gone equally well. Their two teen-agers had taken off early to their bedrooms, presumably to do school work, and had kept the rap music down to a remarkably subdued level. Catherine had brought home a horror movie, which they both enjoyed and which had frightened her enough to make her cuddle up close when they'd turned in, which in turn had resulted in an even more satisfactory evening.
Always an early riser, Donaldson had awakened especially refreshed this morning, punched the button on the alarm long before it had a chance to go off, and decided to leave early without waking the still sleeping Catherine. Breakfast at Sadie's–a cup of the restaurant's superb Kenyan coffee, some of the donuts from the early morning delivery, and plenty of time to read the morning paper before getting to the station at his usual seven–it was little wonder he caught himself humming "Oh, What a Beautiful Morning."
That was when things began to go awry. Traffic was backed up on the ramp to the L-9. "A fender bender," he thought, flipping on the police radio. The blare emerging from the speakers quickly disabused him of that notion. A tractor-trailer loaded with gasoline had jackknifed on the freeway, spilling its fuel along the road and over the railings to the streets below. Fire seemed imminent, since electric lines had gone down too. Signal lights were functioning only intermittently, fire crews were on the scene, all available police were also out doing what they could to unsnarl the traffic.
Donaldson opted to try the side streets. Obviously, half of his end of town had decided to do the same. Six-fifteen and gridlock. Progress was by inches. Breakfast at Sadie's was now little more than a dream. By six-forty, he had moved a scant eight blocks closer to his goal. He had thought to call in to let Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty know he'd be late, but then felt Dispatch had enough on its plate without his adding to it. Besides, it wouldn't be hard for his boss to figure out why he wasn't showing up. The lucky Lieutenant was probably already there at Sadie's, finishing up the morning crossword. Unlike the Sergeant, he lived at the other end of the city in the university district, which very likely had been unaffected by the wreck now tying up Donaldson's part of town.
The thought seemed to bring his cell phone to life, and the familiar voice at the other end made Donaldson almost believe in ESP. It was Flaherty, himself. "Sergeant, I'm at the scene of a homicide. Any idea how long it will take you to get here? It's just a block south of the University."
Traffic was thinning, thank heavens. With luck–and with his flasher on–twenty minutes more should do it. He passed his estimate along. The Lieutenant in turn gave him a few details. A house converted into student apartments was the scene of the death. At six-thirty-two, 911 had received a call from a man reporting his live-in girl friend was dead. Having caught the relayed message to the station, and since he lived less than two blocks away, Flaherty managed to arrive at the scene immediately behind a patrol car. The officers had then sealed off the house, called for the scene of crime personnel and, so far, had gotten only the barest description of what had happened from the residents of the house.
Donaldson turned on the siren, floored the gas pedal, and made it in just under the predicted twenty minutes. Even that early in the morning, the impeccably dressed Lieutenant appeared wide awake and prepared to deal with whatever eventualities might present themselves. He led the way up an inside stairway to a second-floor apartment, saying, "Officer Elscar has the residents in one of the downstairs apartments. I haven't had a chance to really question any of them as yet but, before we do that, I'd like to have you take a look in here." So saying, he opened the door to the apartment.
The usual cramped surroundings of student living quarters greeted Donaldson. A quick inspection took in the entire apartment, which consisted of a living/dining/bedroom, a small bathroom, as well as a separate and not much larger kitchen. The most striking feature was it's one occupant, a young woman who at first simply seemed to be asleep on the opened daybed. She wasn't. Long blonde hair was strewn across the pillow, and Donaldson's first reaction was that someone as beautiful as that in death must have been even more so in life.
"I'd like to have your opinion about cause and time of death, Sergeant. The Deputy Coroner's caught in the gridlock and probably won't get here for another hour at this rate. Any ideas along that line should help with the questioning."
Gingerly, the Sergeant moved over to the bedside. Although he had been an early arrival at many scenes of death, the appearance of this corpse seemed to call for more than just the ordinary respect for the dead. Gently moving up an eyelid, he commented. "Suffocation, sir. You can tell from the blood spots in the whites of her eyes. And, from the feel of her skin, I would guess she died somewhere around four or five this morning. No sign of a struggle. No bruises on her neck. A pillow? Maybe she was already sedated."
"Excellent, Sergeant. While we're not forensic experts, we've been around enough to justify some educated guesses. The fact we're both thinking the same way has me pretty well convinced we're right. Anyhow, let's proceed with the questioning. Bring up the man who called it in." He checked his small notepad. "Troy Johnson. Wait. Before you go. Take another look around the apartment. Is there anything about it that strikes you as unusual?"
There most certainly was–something that had struck him as soon as he'd been able to take his eyes away from the dead woman. The rooms were preternaturally neat. Furniture, what there was of it, gleamed. The office desk in the corner with its computer and printer was in complete order, with papers carefully stacked so that the edges matched perfectly. Windows showed every sign of having been recently washed. All in all, these were living quarters that would have brought a gasp of admiration from Catherine, who was herself almost compulsive in her housekeeping.
Donaldson voiced his opinion while pointing to the only anomaly–on the one table sat an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts and a crushed and empty package of Marlboro filter cigarettes. The smell of tobacco smoke still lingered in the air. Lieutenant Flaherty nodded in agreement as he started across the hall to the neighboring apartment, while Donaldson went off to summon Johnson.
The first interviewee was a tall, handsome Black. Donaldson guessed his age to be in his early twenties and surmised the brown-skinned male, with the soulful eyes and long eyelashes, was probably a favorite with many of the campus coeds. He definitely had been so to one of them.
Visibly and understandably nervous–practically jumping out of his skin, Donaldson thought–Johnson said he and the deceased, Arletta Grieg, had been long-term lovers. She was a premed student at the University, he a dropout. "I ran out of money last quarter. Had to get myself a job."
Donaldson was scribbling in his notepad as Johnson continued. "I work at the Wallenstein Book Depot." Easy to check, thought the Sergeant, since the vast warehouse was only a few blocks from his home. "I punched out at six–usual time since I'm on the nightshift." Also easy to check. Another reminder in the margin.
"Arlie didn't have a class until nine, this morning, so I didn't think anything of it when I slipped in and she was still in bed. Not that I have–had–to worry much about waking her up. She usually studies until midnight, takes a sedative and sleeps like a log. But this time I thought there was something strange. I reached over and touched her forehead and it was stone cold. I called nine-one-one on my cell phone right away. I'm not sure what time that was, but I suppose they've got a record."
Flaherty's next question caught Donaldson by surprise, but then he almost immediately saw the reason for it. "Do you smoke?"
Johnson was also caught by surprise. He hesitated, then shook his head. Not unprepared for the denial, Donaldson scribbled another note. Many smokers were ashamed of their addiction, especially if they were trying to break the habit. Another explanation for the hesitation hovered behind the continuing answer to the question. "Arlie did, though. Pretty heavy. Lot of pressures from school, you know."
"Her brand?"
Another moment of hesitation. "Marlboros. Filter tips."
The remainder of the questioning elicited no possible suspects, the fact that apartment doors were seldom locked, and theirs had not been this time, along with the additional fact that the outside door–while habitually secured–had an ancient lock which could be opened with a minimum of effort.
After he left, Flaherty ran down the list of the other house residents. "Georgia Lewis and Stuart T. Olney. An item–isn't that what those relationships are called these days? They have this apartment." Flaherty waved a hand to encompass their surroundings. "The only other resident is Ramon Lopez. He lives down below and there's another empty apartment downstairs, so that's it as far as residents are concerned. Let's talk to the Lewis woman next."
Ms. Georgia Lewis turned out to be a tall, large-boned, not unattractive woman, who reported her age as nineteen, her status as an engineering student at the University, and her unawareness of the crime before the patrolman rapped on their door.
"I really didn't know much about Arletta. She was a premed student." A smile hovered on her face. "Engineers don't have to study that hard. She had a lot of classes, so I didn't see much more of her than to say 'hi' in the hall. And her and Troy moved in only a month or so ago. He works nights and sleeps days, so we see even less of him. In fact, I've seen more of him in the last hour than I have in the last month."
"Do you smoke?"
As with Johnson, the question surprised her, but there was little hesitation in her answer. "Hell, no! And we never let anyone smoke in this apartment. Ugh! No pot either," she added with emphasis and a broad smile.
"How about the others in the house?"
She shrugged. "I didn't know Arletta and Troy well enough to say. Ramon smokes like a forest fire. You should see him downstairs right now. He's lighting one cigarette from the other. Your policeman let me stand in the hall, out from under the smoke cloud."
The other answers confirmed Johnson's comments regarding locking arrangements in the apartment complex.
When she had left, Flaherty said, "On to the other half of the item."
Stuart T. Olney qualified as the most relaxed interviewee so far. His long, six-foot-two frame folded itself into one of the soft, second-hand chairs. Donaldson anticipated the pattern of the questions, with short descriptive phrases scribbled on the left side of the notebook, and a pencil poised to put the answers in the space on the right.
Olney's replies at first were simply confirmations of his partner's answers. He was also an engineering student, a year ahead of Lewis; reported Johnson and Grieg had moved in very recently; insisted he knew neither of them except to say hello, but added Arletta was a "real beauty"; became aware of the death only when the patrolman showed up.
The answer to the smoking question was different, however, and the hesitation produced the same reaction on Donaldson's part, "A smoker who's trying to give it up."
Finally, Olney smiled rather sheepishly while admitting to occasional smoking. "I'd appreciate it if you don't tell Georgia. She's death on smoking. If she ever found out I was sneaking a cigarette once in a while, she'd heave me out on my ear. She even had to stand outside of Ramon's apartment just now while he chain-smoked."
"What brand do you smoke?"
The smile remained. "I'm not fussy. Nicotine is nicotine. A fix is a fix. Whatever I can bum off of friends on campus. I'd never dare have a pack on me, so I settle for maybe one a day. It's all I can do to hide the smell on my breath with mints."
Ramon Lopez needed no comments next to the smoking question. In fact, he didn't even need the question. Stained fingers and obvious signs of nicotine withdrawal were sufficient positive evidence.
Lopez reported himself, not as a college student, but as a writer. The seemingly reluctant admission that he was in fact only an aspiring writer, now enrolled as an English major at the University, made him finger his shirt pocket, pull out a Marlboro packet, then stuff it back nervously without attempting to take out a cigarette.
To Flaherty's other questions, he was even less helpful, since he reported that living on a different floor made contact with his upstairs neighbors infrequent. He knew Olney and Lewis because they had been residents as long as he had been–well over a year–and had gotten along with them well except for an occasional complaint about his loud salsa music. He had met Johnson only once and had, in fact, never seen Grieg.
When the apartment door closed behind him, Flaherty turned to the Sergeant, "I guess that's it, Donaldson. We can wrap it up as soon as the scene of crime personnel get here to gather the evidence."
"Evidence, sir"
"Yes. Those cigarette butts and the Marlboro package."
"Oh. But can you be sure it's Lopez, sir–before testing the butts for DNA?"
"Lopez? No, not at all. In fact I'm sure it isn't him. Didn't you notice his fingers?
"That's what I mean. He smokes heavy. Enough to have filled that tray when he was in Grieg and Johnson's apartment. Besides, we know he smokes Marlboros."
Flaherty held up a finger. "Just a minute, Donaldson. Those were filter-tip cigarettes in that ashtray. They don't leave nicotine stains. Besides, those were non-filters he was carrying in his pocket."
"But the only other smoker is Olney."
"He won't do, either. It's pretty obvious he smokes only occasionally. He has to, living with a tobacco hater. Certainly, he would never have smoked that many cigarettes last night. If he had, he'd still be showing the effects. No, the murderer is someone who denies being a smoker."
"Oh, I see. The murdered woman was the one who did the smoking. Of course! We were just fooled by all those cigarettes. It was the Lewis woman who killed her. Probably found out her boyfriend was carrying on with her. That's it! Of course!"
"No. Stop and think about the murdered woman's apartment. Isn't it strange someone as compulsively clean as she was would have gone to bed and left an overflowing ashtray of cigarettes behind? And, what made me especially suspicious was the report she was a smoker–a heavy smoker. That's very, very unlikely in the case of a medical student these days."
Before answering, Donaldson mulled over the question Flaherty had posed "You mean she was asleep already when someone was smoking all those cigarettes."
"Not asleep, Sergeant. Dead."
Donaldson mouth fell open. "So someone just sat there and smoked away with a corpse lying on the bed."
"Exactly. And the body made that someone very nervous, hence all the cigarettes. And that someone had to kill time, if you'll pardon the expression–couldn't just leave."
"I'm sorry sir, I just don't follow any of this."
Flaherty smiled. "Why, Donaldson, you provided the solution yourself, when you answered my phone call."
A blank look was the answer to that assertion.
"Gridlock, Donaldson. Gridlock. Remember? How long did it take you to get here from your home when you left there at six–with flashing lights and siren blazing?"
"Over an hour."
"Right. But Johnson left at the same time from just about the same location, and was here and had called in about the murder by six-thirty."
"But he says he punched out at six."
"Ever work somewhere where you had to punch in and out? Ever have someone else cover for you? Ever cover for someone else? Think how easy that would be to do on a night shift in a warehouse. It will be just as easy to check. But we might never have thought to really question his word if you hadn't been caught in that gridlock.
"No. No way. Johnson couldn't have gotten here from the warehouse in a half hour. If he had left at six, he would probably be getting here just about now. What he did was to leave there around five or earlier–before that gas truck accident–showed up here, knew she was sedated, and suffocated her. I'd guess the motive was that he thought she was playing around, or maybe she'd told him a warehouse worker wasn't the most suitable kind of partner for a future physician–but, whatever the reason, we'll find that out later. And, after he killed her, he sat and nervously smoked a half dozen cigarettes, waiting until six-thirty to report the death, not daring to go out of the apartment for fear he'd
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was becoming impatient. Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty should have finished up his homicide investigation across town long ago. A property line dispute with a killing witnessed by a dozen people was a no-brainer. Flaherty couldn't claim much credit for quickly solving a homicide that solved itself, so where was he? Donaldson actually knew the answer–endless paperwork even for that one–but that still didn't keep him from wishing the Lieutenant would show up at this crime scene and solve the insoluble: "What did the woman do with the gun?"
Donaldson had arrived at the luxury apartment within minutes of the murder. The elevator took him up to the top floor where the Espinosas occupied the entire north side. Maria Espinosa's explanation was too pat. She'd been in their bedroom, heard her husband answer a knock at the door–a knock which was followed soon after by a shot. She rushed into the living room, caught a glimpse of a man slipping out through the door of the suite and found her husband dead on the floor with a bullet in his heart. Minutes later she answered the loud knocking of her neighbor from the south wing apartment. Estrella Lopez had been screaming to be let in. The whole scene stank to high heaven.
Mrs. Lopez hadn't seen anyone leaving the Espinosa suite, though she might have missed him, of course. The apartment door that had swung shut behind the supposed intruder had conveniently locked and given Mrs. Espinosa plenty of time to dispose of the gun. But that was the problem. Where was the gun?
"Where's the gun?" was the second question Flaherty asked when he arrived, soon after all the police preliminaries at the Espinosa killing were over. The body had been removed, and a hysterical Mrs. Espinosa had been treated by her own doctor summoned from his apartment a few blocks away. She was now resting in the opposite suite under the concerned care of her neighbor and the close surveillance of a uniformed officer. For all practical purposes the on-scene investigation was indeed complete. Donaldson quickly briefed the Lieutenant the moment he arrived.
Following the briefing, the first question had been, "What's all this?" accompanied by a wave of the hand at the colorful paper decorations streaming from every corner of the room, the gift-wrapped packages overflowing the large table in the center, the balloons tethered to every piece of furniture, and the sign covering an entire wall reading: "Happy Birthday, Carmen and Yolanda."
Donaldson grinned. "The twin daughters of one of the apartment house's residents were due to show up early tomorrow for a giant party. I guess Mrs. Espinosa and Mrs. Lopez were going all out. A Cuban custom, so they say, for a tenth birthday. The kids' classmates were all invited."
Flaherty shrugged and moved on to his second question, which Donaldson tried to answer. "That's the sticker, sir. I know she shot her husband, but I'll be damned if we've been able to find the gun. We've turned the place inside out–with her permission, of course. She couldn't have hidden a tin whistle in here without our finding it."
"How much time did she have before Mrs. Lopez knocked on the door?"
"Well, Mrs. Lopez is in a wheelchair.
"Wheelchair?"
Donaldson tried to not let his satisfaction show. "Yes, sir. And, of course, we checked it out. Not that she would have been able to hide it there. We recovered the bullet, and it's in pretty good shape. Looks like a .44 Magnum. That checks with what the security guard says. Lopez owned one. A Desert Eagle 44. Guard's an ex-cop and nuts about guns. Says it's at least ten inches long and a heavy brute. Not something you could flush down the toilet."
"Did you use Jodi?"
"Oh, sure. The dog handler just left. Jodi sniffed out the powder on the corpse, and even pointed out some on Mrs. Espinosa."
"Which is to be expected if she got close to the corpse. Right?"
"Yes, sir. We checked her hands. No powder traces, but then she probably had on plastic gloves. No sign of them anywhere. Of course, if she could get rid of a gun, gloves would be no problem."
"Mrs. Lopez?"
"The dog ignored her completely. I'd be willing to bet she had nothing to do with either the gun or the killing."
"Jodi find any other residues."
"She did, right over there." Donaldson pointed to an open window.
Flaherty raised an eyebrow.
"Oh, I checked that out first off. Late-night theater crowd was streaming by about then. A gun from eleven stories up would have clobbered one of them or the doorman, who's always standing out there flagging down taxis or whatever."
"I didn't mean that. I meant the floors below."
This time Donaldson couldn't resist grinning. "Way ahead of you sir. Judge McCaffrey and his wife have the suite right below. To make matters even tighter, he was sitting near his window just below watching TV. If she was lowering the gun to someone below the twelfth floor, he would have seen it for sure, to say nothing of the rope which would have had to follow. With this the top floor, she couldn't have passed it up to anyone else. And, before you ask, the roof is out to. It's pitched, with no entrance to it. A human fly wouldn't be able to get around on it."
"You still insist it's her?"
"Definitely. She's faking all the hysterics, and there's plenty of motive. Espinosa was worth a fortune. He was twenty years older than her, and she's quite a looker. We'll find at least one boyfriend, I'll bet, without looking very hard. I checked with the station, and the police have been out here at least twice because she claimed he'd hit her. Dropped the charges, of course.
"The clincher came from the security man. He says Espinosa was down at the lobby yesterday and was madder than a hornet. Told him he'd called his attorney and was going to change his will this weekend. Cut the Missus off without a cent. Nope. She did it. All we need to do is to find that gun."
"Not much point in doing more looking here. Let's get Mrs. Lopez and see if she can throw a little light on what happened."
Mrs. Lopez was in her sixties, well groomed, voluble and with a command of the English language that indicated she had been one of the earliest migrants from Cuba. Her gnarled hands indicated the reason for the wheel chair, but there was no impairment of her vocal chords. Flaherty's first question elicited a complete scenario.
"I didn't actually see the gunman, but I'm almost sure I saw the door to the stairs closing. I was so concerned about Maria that I wasn't looking in that direction. I just pounded on the door until she opened it. He was probably one of those anti-Castro gangsters. Now, I'm not a fan of the bearded one, but we're all Americans now. Those fanatics don't think that way. They threatened Ferdie dozens of times because they knew he was trading in Havana cigars through Europe and Honduras. He made a fortune at it, you know, but there's nothing wrong with that. It actually helped put some money in the pockets of those poor people back home who are still rolling those cigars by hand."
Flaherty held up a hand to interrupt the torrent. "Actually, I was more concerned about this party that was going to be held here tomorrow. Could you tell me about it?"
The stream continued in a different direction at the same rate and volume, as though there had been no break in the flow. "Sad. Sad. We won't be able to have it now. The Garcia twins and all those lovely school children will be very unhappy. It was Maria's idea to have the party. She's such a thoughtful, generous person. She bought all the decorations. My, she seemed so pleased to be able to do that for the twins. I thought she was going to fill the apartment with balloons."
Flaherty broke in again. "Exactly how many did she buy?"
Mrs. Lopez broke into a laugh. "Twelve dozen, exactly. The balloon man said it would take him at least an hour to fill up that many."
Donaldson caught the smile on Flaherty's face and immediately recognized the solution to his problem. He began counting the balloons.
Moments after Mrs. Lopez had wheeled back to her patient, Flaherty broke out his cell phone. His call finished at about the same time as Donaldson completed the count. "Eighteen missing, sir."
"There's not much we can do until daylight, but the station will check with the weather bureau for wind direction, and we should be able to get an estimate of how far those balloons are likely to travel with a gun and maybe some plastic gloves in tow. We'll have a helicopter out to scour the countryside at daybreak. Whether we find the gun or not, I think it's safe to charge Mrs. Espinosa. Don't you?"
"Yes, sir. I think it's very safe."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson couldn't remember when anything like this had happened before–they're arriving first at a homicide scene. Lieutenant Flaherty and he had been on the way back to the station after a late afternoon "incident," quickly resolved in even less than the usual time Fifty Minutes Flaherty was noted for. Driving by an alley just beyond the warehouse district, they were hailed down by a bundled-up figure waving mittened hands. The reason for the frantic signals was quickly determined to be a still and very wine-drenched figure halfway up the alley, sitting against the wall next to a makeshift cardboard and sheet metal shack.
A quick examination prompted several comments from the Sergeant, "He's dead, sir. Must have happened only a few minutes ago. I've seen a few street people hit with empties, but this is the first time I've ever run into anyone killed by a full one." The dripping wine mixed with the victim's blood made for an eerie sight. The shattered bottle with the stopper still intact and the label announcing Rugger Red Wine, added to the surrealistic quality of the scene.
While Donaldson was making the call for the nearest patrol car, Flaherty sent the beam of his five-cell flashlight along the two-hundred foot cul-de-sac. Three more similar structures were spread along the debris-strewn alley. The Lieutenant's inspection was soon interrupted by the arrival of an out-of-breath patrolman.
"Get the residents out to the sidewalk," Flaherty said. "I'll question them, beginning with the man who flagged us down." As he gave the order, he beckoned to the outlandishly dressed figure to follow him out to their cruiser. The crisp fall air made their breaths visible under the dim streetlight, as the Lieutenant, with Donaldson and his notebook in hand, moved over into the beam of the car's searchlight.
It took only moments for the Sergeant to decide that this was a witness who would need no prompting. The man, who was wearing at least two coats, a pair of ragged mittens, a stocking cap pulled down well over his ears, and a pair of eyeglasses with a badly cracked lens, replied immediately to the request for identification. Chapped lips peered out from the bearded face, as he said, "Adam," followed by a momentary pause.
"I suppose you'll be wanting a last name. It's been a while since I've used it. Rose, it is. Don't go asking me for ID. Only paper I've got on me is newspaper under this coat to keep me warm."
Sharing Donaldson's view of their witness, Flaherty merely nodded to encourage the man.
"I was about to turn in for the night. Not much in the way of pickings today, when Jessup showed up–Jessup's the one that got done in–with two bottles of Rugger's Red. He was always a mean SOB when sober, and he was tonight when he got here. I mean both sober and mean. Tight mean and mean, mean. But when he's drunk, he's willing to share, so I figured I'd wait him out. Let him finish one bottle then I'd go back and chat him up. Help him with the second one. His shack is the next one up the alley. Well, you know that already
"It wasn't but five minutes later when I heard Willie let out a screech and then something like the sound of a broken bottle. Made me worry that he might have dropped one of those Ruggers. I thought about it some, then decided to head back there to see what happened. It was still light enough to figure it out without much looking. I used to be a medic a lot of years ago and haven't forgotten what a stiff looks like. That's when I went running out of the alley and right away saw you folks coming down the street."
Flaherty broke in at that point. "Anyone come into the alley besides the people who live here?"
The eye behind the uncracked lens blinked. The implications of the question weren't lost on Adam. He shook his head, finally. "Nope. Just the four of us were here."
"And they are?"
Adam shrugged. "Brandon's place is way up at the other end. He's near the heat vent. First come, first served. He's been here for months. Long before I ever ended up here."
"He also likes his wine, I take it?"
A grin broke through the beard. "Does a fish swim? He's not like Jessup, though. Him and me have had a lot of good evenings here. Share and share alike when the pickings are good."
"Who else?"
"Next shack down this way is Lil's. She keeps it real nice inside."
"Does she drink?"
Adam seemed shocked. "No way. No drugs, either." A circular motion next to his forehead with a mittened hand helped to settle the matter. "Shrink, they used to make me go to, talked about a 'rich inner life.' I guess Lil has that. She don't need no help from the outside. Then there's Jessup's place, and now my little palace is right there near the entrance to the alley."
"Let's see, then that's it. You, Jessup, Lil and Brandon. Right?" The two individuals the growing number of patrolmen had rounded up from the alley seemed to verify Adam's statement. One was a beefy looking woman, with at least as many coats on as Adam had, the other a rather woebegone, but equally well-bundled male hugging his arms to himself. Adam nodded in agreement.
"Well, who's Willie?"
Adam laughed and pointed toward the heavily wrapped woman leaning against the patrol car. "Lil's holding him." In her arms, an especially large and mean looking yellow cat, unhappy at being held, glared in their direction.
"Yeah. That's Lil's pet. Willie keeps the rat population down, so we all pitch in to give him treats. Not that he much needs any help. He does fine by himself. Jessup didn't much care for him. Said he hated cats. But, like I said, he was always mean when he was sober."
Flaherty thanked him and, accompanied by Donaldson, walked toward the small group clustered by the patrol car. As he did so, Willie snarled and managed to break free, streaking–despite what seemed to be an injured right paw–toward the alley. At the entrance he sprang up on a trashcan, surveyed the milling humans, then settled down to licking his wound.
The Lieutenant approached Brandon who was still clutching his heavy coat to himself. "Mind showing me what you're holding there?"
Brandon's eyes flickered back and forth. He looked desperate, as though seeking an escape route. " S'nothin, officer. Nothin."
"Sorry," Flaherty replied. "If you won't show it here, you'll have to show it to us down at the station.
Reluctantly, very reluctantly, the coat opened, a hand reached in and brought out a full, unopened bottle of Red Rugger.
Donaldson sighed. "Shall I load him into the patrol car, Lieutenant, or will we be taking him back in our cruiser."
Flaherty seemed puzzled. "Him? Why, of course not. Have the patrolman take Lil to the station."
"My Willie!" Lil exclaimed. "Jessup should never have hit him with that rock. What's going to happen to my Willie?"
Adam broke in before either Flaherty or Donaldson could speak. "I'll take care of him, Lil. I promise. Got a can of cat food for him today. And, Lieutenant?"
Flaherty's eyebrows went up.
"It looks like a cold night. We're going to have to have something to warm us up. Could you let Brandon keep that Rugger?"
Flaherty smiled as he answered, "I can't see why not."
The moment they were back in the cruiser, Donaldson started to say something, but the Lieutenant interrupted.
"You don't have to ask, Donaldson. You provided the answer the minute we stepped into the alley and saw the corpse. Like you said, you'd never seen anyone killed by a full bottle of wine. Well, someone might commit murder that way, but not someone who was a steady drinker. Lil was the only possibility. Liquor meant nothing to her, but any abuse of her cat did–unfortunately for Jessup. Brandon only did what was expected. He ran out when he heard the scream, saw the wine and took it back to his shack. Corpses were a lot less interesting to him than a full bottle of Rugger Red.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was walking softly this morning. Having just passed Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty's office, he'd heard growls from the den. The ordinarily even-tempered Lieutenant was having problems, and Donaldson suspected it had something to do with the daily crossword puzzle. Ordinarily, a triumphant Flaherty would have emerged long before this time, waving the finished puzzled at anyone handy and then settling down to the day's routine.
Donaldson finally decided to take a chance. Just possibly he might be able to regale his boss with how badly the Chicago PD had fouled up. Knowing the big boys weren't faring so well might sweeten his mood. Flaherty, nose still down in the paper as Donaldson rapped on the doorframe grunted an enigmatic "lifeline."
Donaldson didn't try to decipher the code but simply plunged into his story. "Sir, I thought you might like to know we're releasing Romer Colt." The Lieutenant merely looked up and through his visitor, muttering, "nine letters."
The Sergeant went on. "He's the one we picked up two days ago on a DUI and it turned out Chicago has had an all-points out for him for almost twenty years."
Flaherty's eyes refocused on the Sergeant and he said, "Isn't he the one they want for that strangulation death? Five witnesses to the murder and his blood type under the victim's fingernails?"
"That's right, sir. And that's why we're letting him go, once he's put up the thirty dollars bail on the DUI. The blood type under her fingernails was O. His is A. There's no arguing with that."
Still grasping his newspaper, Flaherty jumped to his feet. "Call the desk. Tell them to hold him. I want to see him immediately."
Donaldson did as he was told, though he knew the facts couldn't be wrong and that the Lieutenant would find that out soon enough.
Colt was a tall, thin black man. Eyeing the two officers who entered the interrogation room, he was more annoyed than hostile. "When you going to let me go?"
"One question," Flaherty said. "Have you ever had a major operation?"
"Sure. Years ago. I had that blood-kind of disease. Can't remember all the fancy names, but they did a transfusion. Worked. Not exactly a Michael Jordan since, but I get around a lot better than before."
Flaherty's face was wreathed in smiles. "Sickle cell anemia. They gave you a stem cell transplant, didn't they?"
Colt shrugged. "Sounds like that's what it was."
"It did more than cure you. They got the transplant material from umbilical cord blood and that changed your type. That can happen. I think we're going to find out you were O before the transplant. And that's it!"
Donaldson responded to the triumphant note in Flaherty's voice.
"Yes, sir?"
The Lieutenant flourished the paper he was still carrying, took out his pen and said, "A nine letter word meaning 'lifeline.'"
Donaldson was still baffled.
As he was filling in the empty spaces, Flaherty said, "umbilicus."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wondered how "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty would react to this particular crime scene. There were no doubts about how the two patrolmen who had been the first to arrive had been affected. O'Toole and O'Brien had been walking on eggs, and it was "Father" this and "Father" that, followed by obvious relief when Donaldson and the crime-scene crew took over. On the other hand, the Sergeant really knew little about his boss's philosophy of life, religion or much else outside of his professional activities. Yes, he did do crosswords. Yes, he was an avid fisherman. Beyond that, the Lieutenant's private life was a closed book, and his arrival ten minutes later did nothing to change that.
"Fill me in," were the same familiar words the Sergeant had heard many times before under similar circumstances. Notebook opened, he began.
"Patrolmen O'Toole and O'Brien caught the nine-one-one at twelve past eight this evening. They arrived at twenty-one past. Victim is a white male. Name is Ferdinand Light, according to his driver's license. Sixty-three years old. He was found stretched out by that thing," indicating a prie dieu where the deputy coroner was bent over a body with a butcher knife in its back. "Only ones in the house at the time of the killing, so far as we know, were two priests–Richard Martindale and Colville Cochler–and the housekeeper, Mary Wilson. I've questioned only Wilson, so far. She says she answered the door around eight. The victim wanted to see a priest, so she brought him in here and went upstairs to tell Martindale.
"On her way back down the stairs she ran into Cochler, who she says was coming back from a call on a sick parishioner. About ten minutes later, while she's in the kitchen still cleaning up after supper, she hears Martindale give a shout. She came in here just about the time Cochler did, and this is what they found. Martindale was on the phone calling nine-one-one.
"I almost forgot. She says the knife is from her kitchen. Her prints are on it, by the way. But that's not surprising, since she's the one who does the cooking. The priests are in the living room down the hall. Want to question them individually, sir?"
Flaherty thought a moment before shaking his head. "I'll go in and talk to them as soon as the DC is finished."
Hearing the remark, the deputy coroner stood up, removed his plastic gloves, brushed off his knees and said, "Before you ask, the best I can say at this time is around eight, and it could have been anywhere from a half-hour to just minutes before the call came in. I doubt I'll do any better than that even after a full autopsy. The cause of death is pretty obvious but, then, you never know." With a wry smile, he added, "I doubt he was kicked in the head by a horse, but there's always the possibility of poison. If I were a betting man, I'd put my bankroll on the knife. Someone stuck it in his back, apparently while he was kneeling down. He may have survived for a few minutes, but I doubt he was conscious for more than twenty or thirty seconds."
***
Richard Martindale was a bald, hefty seventy year old. He made an effort to rise when Flaherty and Donaldson entered the room, but the Lieutenant waved him back, went over, introduced himself and shook his hand. Colville Cochler was considerably younger, perhaps in his forties or early fifties. In marked contrast to his fellow priest, he had a full head of dark hair and was actually very thin. He had been standing when the officers entered the room and walked over to Flaherty to shake hands after a brief introduction.
It took only moments for the Lieutenant to move on to the reason for their presence. "Father Martindale, I'd appreciate it if you would tell me what you know about what happened."
"There's not much to tell, Lieutenant. I went off to say vespers at six at our church across the street, right after supper. We usually eat early here," he added, almost apologetically. "The services last about forty-five minutes, so I was on my way back around six-fifty." He smiled, "I was anxious to catch Cacophony on TV. That's that new quiz program. Of course, I videotape it–just in case–because there are always a lot of interruptions, you know.
"I imagine you want to know if the unfortunate man was one of my parishioners. Actually, he was not. We don't have many these days, so I know them all. He was at the service this evening, though. Sitting in a back pew. The usual dozen or so people were there. Mostly Southeast Asians. We probably wouldn't have a parish any longer if it weren't for refugees. That's why I remember him especially–his being Caucasian.
"Did you speak to him?"
"No. As a matter of fact, I didn't. I suppose I should have, but I was impatient to catch the quiz program. He did look up as I passed. About all I remember is that he looked startled."
"Frightened?"
"No. I think 'startled' is the right word. He wasn't looking at me, so I guess I wasn't what startled him."
"What else was going on at the time?"
"The others were leaving. Some were ahead of me. Father Cochler had just left a few minutes before. The custodian was putting out the candles and getting ready to lock up. So I went up to my room, turned on the television and just made it in time. After that I watched Whirlybirds. You must be familiar with that program."
Donaldson broke in with considerable enthusiasm. "That's the one about the Marine helicopters in the Middle East."
"Right. I missed the last few minutes, unfortunately, and I'd forgotten to record it."
The Sergeant broke in again, this time with a smile. "They rescued the baby, right from the edge of the cliff. Joe Herkimer rappelled down and caught him just as he was rolling off."
The priest heaved a sigh. "I suppose I should have known, but…"
An impatient Flaherty interrupted. "I take it, it was the housekeeper who knocked on the door about then?
With a puzzled expression that quickly disappeared, the priest answered, "Oh, you mean Mrs. Wilson. She really isn't a housekeeper. She's our cook. An excellent one, by the way." He passed his hands over his ample stomach as he added those words. "She told me that someone wanted to see me in the waiting room. I started down the stairs a few minutes afterwards. When I came into the room, I saw this man lying on the floor. I knew he was dead, having seen enough bodies in Vietnam to recognize one. I called nine-one-one immediately while shouting for Father Cochler. I then checked for a pulse, but I knew it was futile, then I administered the last rites–just in case. After all," he added apologetically, "who am I to say when death has finally arrived?
"Moments afterwards, Mrs. Wilson came in followed by Father Cochler. The police arrived surprisingly quickly. I guess that pretty well covers it."
"There is something else," Flaherty said.
The priest nodded in anticipation of the question.
"I'm somewhat surprised that there are two priests here in a parish that, as you indicated, has dwindled considerably."
"I'm about to retire, Lieutenant. Father Cochler is my replacement. So this is just a transition period. I'll be leaving in about three weeks."
"Thank you, Father," Flaherty continued. "That seems to pretty much cover that period of time. Now I wonder if you would be so kind as to give us your version of what happened, Father Cochler."
The younger priest had remained standing while his older colleague had been speaking. When Flaherty turned to him, he finally sat down and said, "I attended vespers also. In fact, Father Martindale and I went over to the church together. Just before the end of services, Mrs. Wilson came in to tell me that one of our parishioners, Mrs. Carla Montez wanted to see me. She thought she was dying." There was a note of exasperation in his voice.
"Her home is just two blocks away, so I walked over. I didn't notice the victim in church, by the way, though I have a vague impression of someone sitting in a back pew. When I arrived at Mrs. Montez's, Doctor Stone was there, as expected. He's one of those old-fashioned doctors who actually make house calls. Well, Mrs. Montez is a notorious hypochondriac, but one can never be sure, can one? We reassured her, and afterwards Dr. Stone was kind enough to give me a lift back. We sat in front of the presbytery for a while talking about Mrs. Montez's symptoms and about some other parishioners and patients we both know."
"Do you have any idea about when you arrived back and how long you sat there."
"I'm afraid I can't help much on that score. I wasn't wearing a watch and didn't check the car clock. We did sit and chat for fifteen minutes or so, maybe more before I came in."
"Were you within sight of the entrance to the presbytery at that time?"
"Oh, yes. We were parked right at the end of the walkway, and the light on the porch was on."
"And you saw no one else at that time?"
"No one. And I'm sure we sat there for at least fifteen minutes."
"And then?"
"I came in and went right up the stairs to my room. I met Mrs. Wilson coming down the stairs and said goodnight. My room is at this end of the hall and I went right in, so I didn't see Father Martindale come by. A few minutes after I got there, I heard his shouts and rushed down the stairs. I got there right behind Mrs. Wilson."
"Is the presbytery always locked?"
"Yes. And so is the back gate to the grounds. I used my key to get in. Father Martindale prefers we don't bother Mrs. Wilson."
Flaherty turned to the older priest. "Do you have any idea why the victim was coming to see you, Father?"
"None, except…
"Yes?"
"Well, it does seem he was kneeling at the prie dieu when he was killed. Confessants frequently kneel when they wish to make their confession. Now, of course, that may not have been why he was kneeling, but it does seem strange he wasn't just sitting or standing if that wasn't his reason for coming to see me."
The next question brought a look of surprise to the priest's face. "Is Mrs. Wilson a Catholic, Father?"
"Why, no." He smiled. "We're an equal opportunity employer. Besides, good cooks are hard to find these days. I spent too many days eating at Wendy's before we found her."
The younger priest broke in. The tone of his voice and his expression both indicated disapproval. "Her responsibilities could very well include carrying out some religious duties, so we would have been more than justified in hiring a Catholic."
The older priest rolled his eyes, but said nothing.
Turning to Donaldson, Flaherty said, "I think it's time for us to talk to Mrs. Wilson."
Grey-haired, at least in her early sixties, the matronly cook had obviously been expecting them. She invited them to sit at the kitchen table where two cups were already waiting for the coffee.
When they'd settled down, she began to describe–with minimum prompting–what had happened that evening. "The two of them," she pointed toward the ceiling, "went off to church around six. It must have been nearly seven when I got a call from Mr. Montez saying his wife was dying and was asking for a priest. So I went over to the church and told Father Cochler about it. He followed me out and went off, I suppose to visit her. I went back to rinse off the supper dishes and put them into the dishwasher. It must have been around eight that I heard the doorbell. I ordinarily don't answer it, but Father Martindale is getting pretty deaf, and I knew he couldn't hear it up there in his room with the TV on.
"Yes, it must have been about eight, because the wash cycle was just finishing. So that man was out there, and he wanted to see a priest. I took him into the reception room and went right up stairs to tell Father Martindale. He was watching that show with all the helicopters. When I was on the way back down the stairs, I ran into Father Cochler and said goodnight. Came back here to take the dishes out of the washer. I'd barely started when I heard Father Martindale shouting for Father Cochler. I rushed out and into the reception room. Father Cochler was right behind me. The body was on the floor and Father Martindale was on the phone."
Donaldson detected a new tone in Flaherty's voice. Reassurance? It was hard to say, but whatever it was, Mrs. Wilson responded to it immediately, as the Lieutenant said, "Mrs. Wilson, there seems to be a considerable discrepancy between your story and Father Cochler's. You say the man rang the bell around eight, but Father Cochler and Dr. Stone had been sitting out front at that time and for at least fifteen minutes before then. They didn't see anyone go in during that time. So your visitor must have come in considerably earlier than eight o'clock."
Looking stricken, she answered almost too softly to be heard. "Yes."
"You knew Ferdinand Light, didn't you?"
An even softer, "Yes."
No further urging was needed. Heaving a sigh, she said, "I knew him. I knew him. Almost forty years ago. I hadn't seen Ferdie since, and I hoped never to see him again. He was in church this evening, saw me and recognized me. He was no good then and no good now, though he claimed he got religion during all the time he spent behind bars. The very first thing he asked me when he came through the door was whether I did the cooking here.
"It wasn't hard to figure out what he was up to. I've cooked all my life. Never knew anything else worth doing, and if I say so myself I'm good at it. But back when I knew Ferdie, between his jail terms, we worked for the same people and were accused of poisoning the family I was cooking for. I was found guilty, even though I swear I had nothing to do with it. I was lucky no one died, because if they had, I'd have ended up in prison longer than Ferdie. Well, I knew he'd blame me for how much time he had to serve, so I changed my name and moved out here.
"Well, I thought I'd left all that behind. Then, he shows up on the doorstep after all these years and out of a clear blue sky–his face covered with a big grin. Says he wants to confess his sins to the priest, but I know what he really wants to do. He wants to make me lose the best job I've ever had, where all I had to do was cook. So I pick up a knife when he isn't looking and take him into the reception room. You know the rest. I'm not a bit sorry for what I did. Just sorry I can't keep cooking here for that nice Father Martindale who really appreciates the food I set in front of him."
***
It was the next morning before Donaldson had a chance to talk over the previous evening's events with his boss.
Flaherty shook his head as he said, "That was all a real shame. If she'd been a Catholic, she never would have killed Ferdinand Light."
Donaldson was appalled by the statement. "What do you mean by that, Sir?"
"If she'd been a Catholic she would have been convinced that what Light told the priest in confession would have remained a secret forever, so there wouldn't have been any need to kill him."
The disbelief was overwhelming. "Do you mean to say he would have kept someone on as his cook who had been convicted of putting poison into food?"
"I mean exactly that, Donaldson. He couldn't break the seal of confession in any way, by word or by deed." There was a pause before he added, "Though I suspect he might have been eating at Wendy's for the next three weeks."
Sergeant Donaldson was just leaving the men's room when he almost ran into Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty who was walking down the hall toward the intake desk–crossword puzzle and pencil in hand, finishing up the last word. The puzzle was a regular morning exercise and usually took even less than the fifty minutes the homicide lieutenant normally spent in solving cases.
With an expression of satisfaction on his face, Flaherty looked up after filling in the last blank. "What's new and exciting today, Donaldson?"
"Looks like a quiet one, Lieutenant. One OD, but Sergeant Culver of Narcotics has taken care of that one. Stumbled across the body while he was off-duty."
As they were talking, they came upon a heated discussion between the Desk Sergeant and an enormous male who towered over the six-foot officer. The Sergeant was heading back to his workplace to introduce some order into the discussion. Donaldson and Flaherty stood aside, allowing the desk sergeant to find his own way through the problem.
The Sergeant broke into the newcomer's stream of questions. "OK. OK. Give me your name again."
The exasperated giant said, "Midge Nagurski. That's n-a-g-u-r-s-k-i."
"I know, I know. Like Bronko Nagurski."
Midge's face broke into a smile. "You know about him? He was my grandfather's brother. Grand uncle or great uncle or something like that."
" 'Midge?' What kinda name is that."
The smile continued. "That's my nickname. Short for midget. Real name's Cuthbert."
The Sergeant snorted. "Now, what's the problem?"
"Well I can't find out what hospital they took Chelly to?"
"Chelly who?"
"Chelly Chillingworth. The guy the medics took off to the hospital this morning. The guy who OD'd last night. Some cop called nine-one-one, and the ambulance took him away, but no one would tell me where they were going. Chelly's a friend of mine and I want to go see him, see if he made it OK."
At that moment, Flaherty stepped in. "That's alright, Sergeant. Maybe I can help. How about coming with me, Midge? I'll see what I can do." With a slight tilt of his head, the Lieutenant signaled Donaldson to come along.
Midge had to almost stoop in order to enter the office, and his bulk overflowed the chair Flaherty waved him to.
Once he'd settled down, and without being asked, he repeated the story he'd told the desk sergeant.
"When did all this happen?"
Midge shrugged. "Sometime round midnight, one-clock."
"Where?"
"In the Garrett District. Pine and Willow. I live on Willow. There's an alley right around the corner on Pine. I was walking past when I saw this guy step out of it. I thought it was kinda funny seeing him. It's a tough neighborhood to be walking around alone in that time of night." He broke off and added, "I don't have to worry much, though. Anyhow, he flashes his badge when he sees me and says there's someone unconscious back there, then he whipped out his cell phone and punched in nine-one-one."
"Did you see who it was in the alley then?"
"The cop wouldn't let me go back there," Midge said, shaking his head. "Said he didn't want to move the guy because he had a head wound. Another cop car showed up in a few minutes, then an ambulance. Crowd by then. Medics took Chelly out on a stretcher. That's when I knew who it was. He looked pretty bad. Needle sticking out of his arm and blood all over his hair. I tried to find out where they were taking him, but the cops just pushed me away."
Flaherty turned to Donaldson. "Find out what you can."
Midge was going on. "Funny thing, you know. Chelly was only a light doper. I never knew he mainlined anything."
The giant had barely left after receiving the bad news about his friend, when Donaldson returned. "Nothing much to report, sir. No autopsy yet, of course, just an overall examination of the body. Definitely OD'd. It must have hit him hard to make him fall over that way and bang up his head. I heard what Midge said about Chelly not mainlining, so I asked the doc about that. He said there weren't any tracks. Must have been his first time. Doc I talked to thinks it was horse tranquilizer. That explains it. Chelly didn't know what he was doing."
Flaherty looked skeptical. "Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. Kinda funny, but he had several packets of heroin stuffed in his socks. Why would he take chances on horse tranquilizer when he had all he needed already on him?"
"Excellent question, Donaldson." Flaherty reached for the phone, and Donaldson was astonished to hear what the Lieutenant was saying to the Chief of Police. He was asking for an arrest warrant for Sergeant Culver of the Narcotics Division. The charge? Murder.
***
Later that afternoon, Donaldson returned to Flaherty's office. "The whole department's buzzing over what happened, Lieutenant. The Chief really hauled Culver over the coals. He finally confessed to killing Chelly. Said Chelly was blackmailing him over drug deals Culver had been making. He agreed to meet Chelly in the alley for a pay-off and instead bashed him on the head, then shot him up with the tranquilizer. Would have left him there to die if Midge hadn't come along." Donaldson paused before adding, "Everyone wants to know how you could have solved this case so fast?"
"I was a bit suspicious to begin with, wondering what a lone off-duty policeman, was doing in that district that time of night. But, Sergeant–I really wasn't the one who solved the case. You did. A doper, loaded with his favorite fix, who'd never mainlined, found dead with a hypo still in his arm. Remember what you said? 'Why would he take chances on horse tranquilizer when he had all he needed already on him?'"
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was pleased. The fingerprint evidence was irrefutable, and Officer Getz had done a beautiful job of carefully powdering them on the wrapping from the box of poisoned candy. She had gone even further and produced a full-size photocopy of the wrappings–front and back–with all the prints clearly marked and identified. The only fly in the ointment was the prosecutor.
"Circumstantial evidence," he'd said, dismissively–with Bruce Mumford's fingerprints all over the wrappings! Thank heavens "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty would be back today from his New Zealand fishing vacation. It wouldn't have taken him even his usual fifty minutes to solve this case, and would involve even less time for him to persuade the prosecutor to admit Bruce had poisoned his mother, hard as it was to picture a son doing that.
Donaldson was still mulling over the beauty of the evidence and the pusillanimity of the prosecutor when his phone rang and the familiar voice of his superior officer came through. "Anything happen while I was away, Sergeant?"
For a moment, Donaldson was speechless, so eager was he to tell Flaherty about the homicide, the quick resolution and the current impasse. He finally choked out, "Agatha Mumford–you know, the wife of the billionaire commodities trader–was killed. Poisoned by her son."
Flaherty broke in, a touch of annoyance in his voice. "Start at the beginning, Donaldson. I'm at the airport on the way to catch a taxi, but I can listen in the meantime. Fill me in."
"Yes, sir." Taking a deep breath, Donaldson rummaged around for his notes, found them, cleared his throat and began. "It was the day after Christmas." For a moment the Sergeant thought he heard a muffled laugh but went on, "and Mrs. Mumford received a package in the mail that morning. Her live-in maid brought it to her. When her nurse arrived that afternoon, she found her patient had died. The nurse called Mrs. Mumford's doctor, who ruled it a heart failure, but since she had no history of heart problems he called the police. To make a long story short, when I got there I spotted the open candy box, which was what was in the package, and I sent it off to the lab."
A touch of pride surfaced in Donaldson's voice as he went on, "My suspicions were confirmed. The chocolates were laced with digitalis." He paused before moving on to the clincher. "And son Bruce's fingerprints were all over the wrapping. Officer Getz has them all identified. Some of the Mumford's maid, where she carried it, some of Mrs. Mumford from opening the package, and the rest are all Bruce Mumford's–and plenty of them. "
"What about the box? Any fingerprints on that?"
"Oh sure. Mrs. Mumford's."
"No others? None of Bruce's?"
The question surprised the Sergeant. He shrugged at the phone in his hand, then shook his head. "No, sir. He must have been careful about the box but forgot about the wrappings."
A pause, then, "Postmark?"
"Badly smudged. Not hard to figure out it was a fake. Bruce just wanted it to look like it had been mailed, but stuffed it into the box himself."
After a brief pause, Flaherty's voice, peppered by static, announced, "Got a taxi, finally. Meet me at the Mumford house." The connection broke at that moment.
Donaldson looked at the silent phone, shook his head and carefully returned it to the cradle. "Now, why in the world would he want to go to the scene of a poisoning. There's nothing there."
There was something there. Something articulate, knowledgeable about the day-after-Christmas events and very eager to please. Donaldson introduced the Lieutenant to Kathie O'Rourke, attractive and as Irish looking as her name suggested. Her speech bore the hint of a brogue, which added to her charm.
"I'm pleased to meet you, sir." Flaherty was also pleased to meet her. "Won't you come in?" They did. "Could I get you a cuppa coffee?" She could. They settled down.
Seated around the kitchen table, the conversation drifted to the events of the past week, needing only a modicum of steering from Flaherty.
"Christmas was so nice. Mrs. Mumford had been looking forward to it for weeks, just to have the family together. Her daughter, Mrs. Mumford-Hughes, flew in from Venezuela. Her husband's a diplomat there. Bruce was already here on a business trip. He's the older brother. But Reed–he's the younger brother; Mrs. Mumford had three children–he came in from Las Vegas, just hours before the get-together. Mrs. Mumford said they had never missed a Christmas gathering. It was always a big event–everyone exchanging presents and everything."
"What was the atmosphere of the meeting like?
"Did they seem to be enjoying themselves?" Flaherty's explanation helped to clear up Kathie's blank expression.
"Oh yes," she said, her face lighting up. "They were laughing and joking, opening gifts and all, and making plans to go out to a restaurant afterwards. That was part of their Christmas celebration. They had a special restaurant, one that prepared a meal special for Mrs. Mumford. She was a diabetic, you know. She had to be very careful about what she ate. Now the high point of the evening before they left for dinner was the gift exchange."
Kathie's face radiated as she described her present from the group. "A really lovely wool sweater, from the Shetlands. My, it must have cost an awful lot. Later, I made it a point to go in and serve coffee several times to see what the others were getting. I especially wanted to see the gift from Mrs. Mumford to her daughter. It was an absolutely beautiful double string of pearls. It must have cost a fortune. And Mr. Reed gave Mr. Bruce one of those brand new, state-of-the-art Palm Pilots like my brother Joey is always talking about. Oooh! But wouldn't Joey love to have one like that!"
The monologue flowed as freely as the coffee. The majority of the presents were described in some detail–small items, including expensive jewelry, watches, rings. The departure of the guests received equal treatment, especially since it required special logistics, as Mrs. Mumford was considerably overweight and walked only with difficulty and with the help of two canes. The gardener-chauffeur helped her into the family van.
Donaldson, who had been taking notes between sips of coffee, gave his superior a quizzical look as the latter suddenly became interested in the details of the departure. Kathie's forehead wrinkled as she tried to remember. "Mr. Bruce went with Mrs. Mumford in the van. I'm quite sure Mrs. Mumford-Hughes took her own car. I'm not really sure why. I do know Mr. Reed took his car, because he said something about having to fly back to Las Vegas that evening right after dinner–on the 'Red Eye,' he called it. He must have forgotten something, because he came back into the house for a few minutes after the others left. I was up in my room trying on my sweater and heard the front door close. I looked out the window to see him finally driving off."
"Wasn't Mrs. Mumford's nurse here?'
A headshake. "She only comes by early afternoons. She checks. That is, she would check Mrs. Mumford for blood sugar and then tell me what she should have to eat that day and the next morning. It wasn't much of a problem, since all the prepared food was brought in. Mrs. Mumford would have completely ignored her diet if she had had her way. The doctor insisted that the refrigerator and food cupboards be locked, and I had the only keys to them." Kathie emphasized the point by rattling a set of keys in her pocket.
"Mrs. Mumford might have had to walk with canes, but my goodness how she could move around on them. And there was nothing wrong with her hearing. She could just suddenly appear in the kitchen doorway when I opened the refrigerator, and sometimes she'd just about beg me for extra food." Another headshake.
There followed her description of how she had picked up the package on the morning after Christmas from the rural mail box which served the home, how she would never have given it to Mrs. Mumford if she'd known there was candy in it, never mind poisoned candy, and how she was busy in the kitchen most of the morning until the nurse arrived, and my wasn't it terrible seeing Mrs. Mumford sprawled dead in her chair.
Donaldson still wondered what the point had been to the interview, and wondered even more when Flaherty had him stop at Cowlitz's department store, only to emerge with a roll of Christmas wrappings from a post-holiday sale. There was no explanation on the way to the station except for a call ahead asking Officer Getz to meet them with all of her fingerprint detection paraphernalia.
Getz and Donaldson looked on in some amazement as Flaherty cleared his desk, picked a large-size book from his bookcase, set it down along with a plastic-covered roll of Christmas wrapping and asked Officer Getz to wrap the book. She grinned, pulled her chair up to the desk, and began stripping the plastic from the wrapping. "I did this for a Christmas season at Cowlitz's when I was a teenager. Ever since then, my whole family cons me into doing their wrapping for them."
In just a few moments, the package was neatly wrapped and sealed with the tape Flaherty had provided. The Lieutenant then had Donaldson unwrap it.
"Now show us your skills, Getz. Let's see what kind of fingerprints you two left behind."
All three heads were close together as the officers examined the finished product and compared it with the wrapping from the crime scene.
It was Flaherty who made the first observation. "Doesn't the distribution of Donaldson's prints look pretty much the same as Bruce's and Mrs. Mumford's but not yours?"
Getz nodded and frowned. Donaldson simply looked dubious, finally saying, "Sir, do you mean Bruce unwrapped the package? But he wasn't there when his mother received it."
"I mean exactly that. Bruce unwrapped a package, and the wrappings with his fingerprints were used to rewrap the box of candy that Mrs. Mumford then unwrapped. And he wasn't there when she received it. Now the one thing we can be sure of was that whoever did wrap the candy also wore gloves and never left a print on it."
"How do you know that, sir?" Getz asked.
"Were there any fingerprints on the stamps?"
Getz's answer was immediate. "Oh! Of course. There weren't any. Whoever did the rewrapping couldn't get Bruce's fingerprints on something he'd never handled. And that also explains why his prints weren't on the box."
Donaldson's face lit up. "The maid! She collected the wrapping, did up the box of candy and it was never put into the mailbox. I should have known a son wouldn't kill his own mother. I'll go out there right now and bring her in."
"Slow down, Donaldson. Wrong suspect. This was carefully planned. Someone had to be sure Bruce got a present that was about the size of a candy box. The maid had no way of knowing he would get one like that, but someone did."
"Reed! He gave Bruce a Palm Pilot, and he went back into the house long enough to retrieve the wrapping."
"Exactly."
"How could a son do a thing like that?"
Detective Sergeant Donaldson pulled out a large red handkerchief and wiped his forehead as he and Officer Spinelli closed the door leading to the interrogation room. Spinelli was about to ask, "Now what?" but the expression on Donaldson's face convinced him it wasn't a good idea. As it turned out, the detective answered the unasked question.
"Flaherty should be back from that meeting. I was hoping we could get Zanotto to crack by now, but he's a tough nut. Flaherty will do it, though. He says these small time hoodlums always incriminate themselves. Wait till you hear him interrogate. He'll have Zanotto spilling his guts in minutes."
Since Donaldson now seemed almost relieved at the thought he'd expressed, Spinelli decided it was safe to ask, "Is that why they call the Lieutenant 'Fifty-Minutes'?"
The Sergeant grinned. "Right. He should have the whole case wrapped up in less than an hour. Wait until you see him in action. He'll have Zanotto not only confessing to killing Nguyen, but the poor slob will probably end up admitting to a half-dozen other crimes besides."
New in the precinct, Spinelli had never seen Flaherty before, and he was definitely unimpressed by the man's appearance. Grey haired, bespectacled, looking more like a sedentary bookkeeper than a tough homicide lieutenant, Flaherty nodded to the two chairs opposite his desk. As they settled down, Spinelli followed Donaldson's gaze to the small clock on the wall. The time was exactly 2:45.
"Fill me in," were Flaherty's first words.
Donaldson took a deep breath and broke out his notes. "Nguyen Van Dat was found dead in his home this morning–skull crushed with a statue. Statue wiped clean. Pathologist's preliminary estimate is that he was killed around eleven last night. Mariano Zanotto had a big argument early yesterday in Nguyen's store. He was demanding that Nguyen pay up a gambling debt, and he threatened him in front of a couple of witnesses. He also has a record of criminal assault. Did time for using a baseball bat on someone he claimed welshed on him."
"Alibi?"
Donaldson grinned. "Wait'll you interrogate him, Lieutenant. He claims a cast-iron alibi. Playing blackjack with four of his buddies till ten of twelve. We've questioned each of them, and they swear he was there until the party broke up. They've all got records. Spinelli here knows them all. That's why I took him along. He lives in the neighborhood."
The Lieutenant shifted his gaze to the officer. Spinelli cleared his throat and said, "They'll swear to anything."
"Any independent witnesses?" The question was addressed to Donaldson, who went back to his notebook.
"Old codger who lives across the street from Nguyen was in a recliner looking out the window all night, according to him. Says he can't sleep at night. Reports a taxi pulled up in front of Nguyen's around eleven. Pouring rain, so he couldn't describe who got out. Hat pulled down over his eyes, average height–for what that's worth. About a half-hour later, same guy came out where another taxi had pulled up.
"Zanotto insists he never rode in any taxi last night. In fact, he claims that the game broke up just before midnight because of him. He had to catch a subway to Lakeville, and the last train leaves at twelve-o-five."
"No car?"
"He lost his license after three DUIs. We checked on that. At least that part of what he says is true."
"You checked with the taxi companies, too?"
"Sure thing. They confirm what the old man said. Passenger dropped off at ten-fifty-six. Passenger picked up at same spot half-hour later, after a call in. And no better description of him, then. Dropped off at entrance to subway station on 12th and Roy. Male, maybe five-ten, hat pulled down over his face, raincoat–and raining like hell. Paid for the ride with a five-dollar bill. Paid the first driver out of a twenty. Driver remembers it as new and crisp–for what that's worth–and picked him up at 4th and Flory. That's three blocks from the blackjack game."
"Hmm. If Zanotto did it, why would he walk three blocks through the rain to catch a taxi? There are just as many going up and down anywhere on 4th."
Considering the three-block walk a minor matter, Donaldson felt annoyance at the comment, but knew better than to show it. "I charged him because he had plenty of opportunity, if that was him that took the taxi. Besides, he has a record of assault, fits the description of the taxi passenger–such as it is–and no one else entered the house. The rear door was padlocked on the inside, and the old man across the street insists no one else went in or out that evening after Nguyen got home around eight."
"Did Nguyen owe anyone else money?"
Spinelli answered the question, accompanying it with a wide grin. "Half the neighborhood, sir. And that includes at least two of the alibi witnesses at the blackjack game."
Donaldson was about to protest, when Flaherty broke in. "How did the game go?"
The Detective looked puzzled, and then realized what was being asked. "I don't think anyone was a big winner or big loser. While we were questioning Zanotto, he did volunteer that he'd come out behind. Didn't say how much. I'm sure he'll be willing to tell you when you talk to him. He just sits there with a big grin on his face. Denies everything and insists he wants to cooperate. Wait till you see him."
"I take it he hasn't asked for an attorney."
"No, sir. He insists he's innocent, so why should he need an attorney."
Flaherty smiled. "So that made you suspicious. Usually asking for an attorney arouses suspicion."
Donaldson shifted uneasily. "Wait till you interrogate him, Lieutenant. He just figures his alibi is unbreakable."
"You cleaned out his pockets?"
Donaldson nodded. "Desk sergeant has all his belongings."
Turning to Spinelli, Flaherty asked, "Would you go out and bring in what's at the desk?"
"Yes, sir." The officer jumped up and left the room. Almost before Flaherty could continue with his questions, he was back with a small plastic envelope. The Lieutenant dumped out some small change, a cheap wristwatch, a grey handkerchief, a set of keys and a wallet containing a driver's license, some odd receipts, eleven dollars in cash, and a variety of charge cards.
Sifting through the items, Flaherty selected a small receipt and inspected it closely. Addressing Spinelli, he asked, "Is there an ATM machine at 4th and Flory?"
"Yes sir. First National Bank is right on the corner."
The Lieutenant pushed the paper across to Donaldson. The top line of the ATM showed the previous day's date and a time stamp of ten-twenty-one pm. "Looks as though he didn't have enough money to pay the taxi, so he walked the three blocks to the ATM machine. That explains the nice, new bill he gave the driver. I won't need to question him," Flaherty said. "Just show him this receipt, and he'll be asking for a lawyer, then put him away in a cell."
Spinelli looked up at the clock as the pair left the office. He whispered in Donaldson's ear, "They need to change his name to Fifteen Minutes Flaherty."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson decided there was no rush to get to the scene of this death. In fact, he was tempted to not bother going at all. When someone's killed by a bear, that hardly comes under the heading of an unexplained death. But, the incident was in his jurisdiction, this had been an especially boring night shift, and he hadn't been to a carnival since grade school. That was more years ago than he cared to remember.
Surprisingly, Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty pulled up next to him in the parking lot just as the Sergeant was getting out of his car. The Lieutenant must have sensed Donaldson's surprise, since his greeting was, "I caught the nine-one-one call relay and figured this might be more interesting than a Charlie Chan movie. Besides, we don't get many cases of bear killings." The Deputy Coroner's almost immediate arrival convinced Donaldson that it must have been a dull evening all around.
A gathering crowd and a uniformed patrolman at one end of the carnival grounds made it easy to find the location of the incident. The scene they encountered was novel, at least from Donaldson's viewpoint. A cage, behind house trailers serving as homes for the carnival personnel, was surrounded by onlookers. Inside the cage, a large bear was lying on his side at the far corner. Also inside, but near the door to the cage, another body–this one a woman with a bloodied head–lay crumpled like a heap of discarded clothes. One of the men in the audience, spotting the Lieutenant as being the figure in charge, immediately volunteered that he, Lemuel Sorensen, was the animal trainer and that he had rushed out of his own trailer when the woman's husband started yelling that the bear had mauled his wife. He went on to express his disbelief, "I just can't understand how this could have happened. Muskie has never hurt anyone. And Frederica is the last one he would ever had done any harm to. She used to pet him and make over him all the time."
Donaldson shrugged and nodded toward the animal. "Well he won't hurt anyone else."
Sorensen looked uneasy. "I didn't have the heart to kill him. I just shot him with a tranquilizer gun. He'll be out for an hour or so. I know he'll have to be put down, but I don't want to be the one to do it."
Another figure broke into the circle standing at the cage's entrance. He was a tall, disheveled male, virtually screaming at the animal trainer. "You kill that damn bear, Lem, and if you won't, I'll do it myself. He killed Frederica, and I want him dead. Now!"
One of the police officers who had arrived early on the scene, and who was now standing next to Flaherty, whispered aside to the Lieutenant, "That's her husband. Royce Marx. He's the owner of the carnie. He found her like that." With a sideways movement of his head, he indicated a nearby house trailer. "That's where they live."
Signaling to Donaldson that he was taking over, Flaherty turned to the DC. "OK. We might as well get moving. Can you give the body a quick once over to make sure about how she died. Then check out our friend over there in the fur coat. And watch out for the bananas."
For the first time Sergeant Donaldson noted the half dozen bananas strewn on the cage floor, mostly around the somnolent bear. Even from the outside he could see blood on the fruit as well as on the bear's claws. Sorensen, the trainer, broke into the Sergeant's speculations. "Muskie really liked bananas. Ate them skin and all. I guess Frederica must have been in there giving him a treat and he just got excited. That isn't like him, though. Not like him at all. He's always been gentle as a kitten."
With the cage opened, the DC stepped in gingerly. The Lieutenant stopped Marx, saying, "Let's you and me and the Sergeant here, and the trainer–Lem Sorensen, is it?–go over to your trailer where we can be comfortable while we get answers to a few questions–just to clear up some items. The DC should be able to give us a few preliminary details in ten minutes or so." He looked thoughtful as he started off to Marx's trailer, adding, "I don't imagine the DC will want to spend much more time than that in there with Muskie."
The moment they entered the trailer, Donaldson could see that his chief was fascinated by its interior. Knowing that Flaherty was an avid fisherman, the Sergeant quickly guessed that the Lieutenant had in mind something like this mobile home for long vacations out in lake and stream country. What must have fascinated him as well were the trailer's decorations, consisting of a large stuffed salmon, huge moose antlers, and a grizzly bear's head.
Flaherty's questions addressed to Marx and Sorensen were routine. Donaldson went through the formality of entering the answers into his notebook, while still being aware that Flaherty was much more interested in the surroundings then in what the two men were saying in reply to the questions.
In little more than the predicted ten minutes, the DC came in, and the questioning turned to him. "Cause of death?" asked Flaherty.
"Well. The usual warning. I can't be sure until we have a complete autopsy with a report back from the lab. But, with a skull crushed the way it is, I think it's safe to say she died from massive brain trauma. The side of her head and face also have inch-deep gashes. Not hard to decide where those came from. Definitely claw marks."
"And Muskie had blood on his claws, I take it."
The DC looked uneasy as he answered. "I didn't linger over him. Didn't try to match his claw prints to the slashes on the side of her face, but then there's no question about it. He had blood on his claws–along with a smashed banana."
"OK. Thanks. That should do it."
Donaldson was amused, but didn't say anything as he wrote, in block letters. "Surprise! The bear did it."
Flaherty stood up, turned to Marx and asked, "Mind if we search your trailer?"
The owner became immediately belligerent, standing and squaring his shoulders. "What do you want to do that for? This is crazy. What's this got to do with that damn bear killing my wife? You can't search my house without a warrant."
"Fine. I tell you what. We won't search it, if you'll just pull that hairy looking thing out from under the daybed."
Marx's shoulders slumped. Sitting down on the daybed, he kicked a stuffed bear foot and claw from under the piece of furniture.
***
It wasn't until the following morning, when Donaldson went into the Lieutenant's office to turn in the full report, that he could find the courage to ask how Flaherty had known Marx had killed his wife.
"I didn't, Sergeant. It was just that black bears, unless it's a mother protecting her cubs, don't particularly like to attack people, so that made me a bit suspicious. The stuffed animals in Marx's trailer were what really tipped me off. Big game hunters like to keep all sorts of trophies. It was just by accident that I noticed what was under his daybed. He was obviously in a hurry when he tried hiding it. Actually, he probably never thought anyone would go looking for a murder weapon, since it seemed to be right there in the cage with the corpse.
"Sure, he insists he just lost his temper. That he hit her when he found out she was having sex with Lem, that she hit her head on the table when she fell, and that's what killed her. Whether or not it was premeditated will be up to the jury. What he did do, for sure, was to kill her in the trailer, drag her out to the cage, throw a banana to Muskie, put her in the cage, clawed her with that stuffed claw, then handed a bunch of bloody bananas to the bear. You'll note that much as Muskie liked bananas, he wasn't about to eat them once he'd picked them up and smelled them, but he did what Marx wanted him to do–get blood on his claws. And that's when Marx started yelling that Muskie had killed Frederica."
Flaherty paused, before adding, "By the way. Sorensen called me this morning to thank me."
"For what, sir? For finding out who the murderer was?"
"Not really. More for finding out who the murderer wasn't. Now Muskie won't have to be put down."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wondered if it was worth calling Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty in the early hours of the morning for a killing clearly committed by some vagrant, who was now undoubtedly long gone. What the neighbors had told Donaldson pretty much clinched it as far as he was concerned. But better safe than sorry, he decided finally, since Flaherty had standing orders to be notified in all cases of homicides. He shrugged, then punched in the Lieutenant's home phone number.
Having rehearsed the events of the night, Donaldson was ready with all the details even before Flaherty's arrival at the station. Without waiting for questions, he began, "The victim's name is Sarah Brosnahan, sixty-seven, married. Her husband, Raymond Brosnahan, came home shortly after midnight and found her dead in the kitchen. Someone used a meat tenderizer on her head. Deputy coroner said death would have resulted immediately from any one of the six or more blows, and his best guess right now is that she died no later than eleven. No sign of anything missing beyond her purse, but then the killer may have been frightened off by the husband's arrival."
"Where do they live?"
"Out at the edge of the State Park. It's pretty isolated out there. Only one house nearby."
"You questioned him?"
"Yes, sir. He does have an alibi of sorts. He was at Sharkey's Tavern and obviously did some heavy drinking. We haven't had a chance to look up any of the crowd, but it's a packed, noisy place. He said he talked to several people while he was there, but couldn't give us any names and mostly drank alone. We did get to question the neighbors, a Mr. Joseph Leach and his wife, Anna. They didn't know about the killing until the police arrived. Brosnahan's downstairs now, giving a statement to Sergeant Lilliwhite. Do you want to talk to him, Lieutenant?"
"Yes. And then we'll go out to the crime scene."
Raymond Brosnahan turned out to be someone in his seventies who had obviously been a powerful man in his day. At the moment he seemed somewhat the worse for wear, and that appearance was not entirely due to grief, as Donaldson had earlier noted. Brosnahan was showing the effects of an evening's heavy drinking, but at the same time seemed to be a drunk who could function fairly adequately while in that state.
Flaherty asked him to repeat his story.
"Well, Lieutenant, I just got out of the hospital this afternoon. I guess it's yesterday afternoon by now."
The Lieutenant raised an eyebrow. In answer, Brosnahan waved a cane and explained, "I was cleaning my gun a couple of days ago, and like a damn fool I didn't check that it was loaded. Plugged myself right behind the knee." He motioned with his cane to the fleshy part of his leg just above the joint.
"I didn't need anything more than some shots and a bandage, but the doc insisted on my keeping off my feet overnight, then didn't get around to letting me go until late yesterday. I was on my way home, but decided to drop off for a quick one at Sharkey's. Well, you know how it is. One drink leads to another, and it wasn't until sometime around midnight that I decided I'd better head home. I guess maybe I shouldn't a been driving, but there's no traffic out there. Anyhow, soon as I walked in I knew something was wrong."
Eyes tearing up, he went on, "Sarah was lying right there on the floor in the kitchen. I knew she was dead, the minute I saw her. I'm not sure how long it was before I got my wits together long enough to dial nine-one-one."
Flaherty stood and, turning to Donaldson, said, "Let's go out to the scene, Sergeant. In the meantime, Mr. Brosnahan can check and sign his statement." On the way out, Flaherty said something to Sergeant Lilliwhite that Donaldson didn't catch.
The Brosnahan house was already dark and quiet when they arrived. The only sign of anything amiss was the yellow tape across the front gate showing up faintly by the light of a nearby street lamp. The Leach home, on the other hand, was lit up, and Flaherty headed toward it. Both buildings had obviously been built by the same contractor at minimal expense. Set well back from the road and lacking either garages or carports, the buildings seemed small and lonely against the dark background of tall trees. The cars of both the residents were sitting out on the street.
Surprisingly, the Leaches, an elderly couple, appeared to be actually pleased to see the two officers. Donaldson decided that there ordinarily was little excitement in their lives, and that the events of the past few hours took precedence over any need for sleep. Ushered into a tiny, but comfortable living room, coffee was soon being consumed by the three men, while Mrs. Leach rummaged around in the kitchen for something to go along with the beverage.
Flaherty's first question was, "Could you tell me about the shooting?"
"I sure can," Joseph Leach replied quickly. "It happened two days ago, sometime around ten in the morning. I heard a shot and decided to check it out, over Anna's protests. I found Ray sitting in the kitchen with his trouser leg rolled up, bleeding like a stuck pig. His rifle was sitting on the table. He said he was cleaning it and it went off. I offered to drive him to the emergency room, but he said he could manage. It took a towel to stop the bleeding, then he hobbled off to his car and drove away."
"Was his wife around?"
"Sarah? Nope. She was probably in the bedroom sulking. Those two sure liked to fight, drunk or sober. And they both drank. We never had much to do with them. Not that they were bad neighbors. When their jawing went on after bedtime, I just turned my good ear to the pillow. Anna, now," He nodded toward his smiling wife who had just come in with a plate of Oreos. "She doesn't wear her hearing aid to bed. Without it you'd have to make an awful lot of noise for her to hear anything. No, they weren't bad neighbors, but we didn't have much in common with them."
"And what about last night? Did you hear anything, then?"
"Nope. He was still in the hospital, I guess. Though some stranger must have come by sometime around eleven."
"You saw someone?"
"Nope. But I heard their dog, like I told the Sergeant, here. Rags is a little mongrel with a bark like a Doberman. Any stranger goes up that walk, he yelps up a storm. Not that they ever had many visitors. Right around eleven, he really set off a racket. Even Sarah woke up, so that will give you some idea of how loud he was."
"So it couldn't have been Brosnahan coming home?"
"No way. You know how dogs are. They recognize footsteps. I've never heard him ever bark at Brosnahan. Or at Sarah. Or at either me or Anna, for that matter. We could walk up that path to the yard where Rags is fenced in when it's pitch dark like it is now, and I'm sure he wouldn't let a peep out of him. But a stranger come by, and Rags would raise the roof. So, as I was saying, we woke up when he set up a ruckus, but then both of us went back to sleep until all the blue lights flashing woke us up again. And the police going up to the house set Rags off for the second time in one night."
Donaldson felt that Flaherty was cutting the interview all too short, since there were still some Oreos left when he thanked the Leaches and went off to their car. On the way, Flaherty punched in the station number on his cell phone and got hold of Sergeant Lilliwhite. The side of the conversation Donaldson could hear left him puzzled.
"OK. You've stalled him long enough. Have him sign his statement, then bring him here. About a hundred yards or so from his house, develop car trouble, apologize and drop him off so that he'll have to walk home. Tell him it's OK to cross the tape if he asks. Donaldson and I will be down the street a way. Just ignore us."
It wasn't until after Brosnahan had walked the path up to his driveway and been arrested and charged that Flaherty gave Donaldson a full explanation for what happened and how he had solved the case.
"Lilliwhite found out that Sharkey's wasn't Brosnahan's usual drinking establishment, so he probably wasn't too well known by the regulars there. And even if someone did know him, since he was drinking alone, no one could be sure when he left.
"What about the missing purse, sir"
"I would guess we'll find it someplace hidden in the house. Brosnahan may not have been thinking too clearly when he killed his wife but, after he did, I'm sure the fog cleared enough for him decide to make it look like a robbery gone awry.
"Anyway, Leach's description of how Brosnahan was sitting at the table in the kitchen, with a gunshot wound behind his knee was a tip right there. That didn't sound much like the kind of accident that could happen if he was cleaning the rifle at the table. What I suspected was that he and his wife's usual quarrels had gotten out of hand, enough so that he was probably a lot madder than usual at her. It just seemed a lot more likely that she had shot him." Flaherty paused, smiled and added, "which would be enough to make anyone pretty angry.
"Then, I remembered that Sherlock Holmes story where the fact that some dogs didn't bark was what was significant. Well, sometimes a barking dog can tell you things, too. Hobbling like Brosnahan was, Rags would never have recognized the walk. He might even have been more upset than otherwise by that strange limp and the noise of the cane. And, according to Joseph Leach, that was the only time in the night the dog barked–until the police arrived.
"No! It didn't have to be a stranger coming up that path to make the dog bark, as we found out when we watched Brosnahan walk up to his house a few minutes ago."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson still had a surprised look on his face when he replaced the phone in its cradle. Why would "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty want him in on a conference with the Attorney General? The possibilities weren't good. A bad job of mirandizing in some particular case? Failure to follow in detail the specifications of a search warrant? By the time Donaldson arrived at the Homicide Lieutenant's office, five more likely screw-ups had come to mind. Flaherty's unperturbed look as he introduced Donaldson to Attorney General Karl Langworth helped. The AG's frown of preoccupation didn't.
Following the preliminaries, and after the Lieutenant had waved him over to a chair, Flaherty asked, "Isn't your brother-in-law a Ford Dealer, Donaldson?
Oh, oh, thought the Sergeant. What has Leo been up to? He nodded. "Sure, he owns Leo LePlante's Motors."
"He doesn't happen to have one of those new Ford Palomino's in stock, by any chance, does he?"
Donaldson relaxed. He could see it coming. The AG was going to pull a little political rank and try to get one of the scarce new Palominos that were causing a stir in the automotive world. "He sure does, but only a floor model. Could be months before he gets any more, and he has a long waiting list for them, already."
Flaherty saw the direction Donaldson's thoughts were taking. He disabused him of them immediately. "The AG's not looking to buy one. He just has a mystery involving a Palomino, and I thought you might know something about the car."
"I sure do, sir," Donaldson began with enthusiasm. "I sat behind the wheel of the one Leo has out on the floor. He wouldn't let me drive it, but then he won't let even prospective buyers test drive it. Afraid they might scratch it up. Quite a car. Safety model of the century, even though it's a convertible. It has a roll bar, airbags–side and front antilock brakes. You name it. There isn't a state-of-the-art safety feature it doesn't have. The aerodynamic design is fantastic. It's been clocked on test runs at a hundred-and-seventy-five and that's without opening it up."
Flaherty interrupted the flow. "The AG isn't much interested in what the car can do. What he is interested in is how someone could be murdered in it and make the murder look like suicide. I know that sounds mysterious, so I'll let him tell you the story."
Donaldson turned to face the AG, who immediately launched off into the story. "You've very likely heard of Parker, Loeb, Heisman and Lee, the attorneys."
"The ones who won that big tobacco settlement a while back?"
"Right. The partners literally made tens of millions as their part of the settlement. Heisman and Lee each bought themselves one of those Palominos. They must have paid a hefty premium for them, since they're so scarce but, as you can imagine, they could afford the price. So they're parked in their basement office garage one evening late. They leave the office together, go down to their cars. Heisman says he saw Lee get into his, and moments later he heard a shot. He wasn't sure where it came from, because sound reverberates in those underground garages, but he got out of his car and started toward Lee's.
"The attendant came running down the ramp about then, and the two of them went over to Lee's car. He'd fallen over onto the seat. The car was locked, and they couldn't get in. They called nine-one-one. A patrol car was in the neighborhood and responded immediately. It took a sledge and a crowbar to open the car. Lee had a gunshot wound in his right temple. He died on the way to the hospital without recovering consciousness."
"Did you find the weapon?"
The AG nodded. "A twenty-five caliber, on the seat by his side. Unregistered and untraceable. He'd fallen over on it."
"Could there have been anyone else in the garage?" From the corner of his eye he could see the Lieutenant smiling his approval. He was asking the right questions.
A shake of the head was the answer. "Both the attendant and Lee insist no one else could have been there or gotten out without their seeing them. The ramp and the elevator are the only exits, and there were only a couple of other cars in the garage. The patrol officers who arrived checked the place thoroughly. No one else was there."
"Why do you suspect it was murder rather than suicide?"
"Heisman had a motive. He'd just discovered that Lee was playing around with his wife, and he admits he wasn't exactly pleased about it. Besides, it seems unlikely that a man who has just become a multi-millionaire would kill himself. The possibility of accident seems even less likely. He was known to have an aversion for guns–wouldn't so much as touch one. And, from questioning his friends and acquaintances, it seems almost certain that that wasn't his gun."
"Did the police check his hands for powder residue?"
"Yes, and there was none."
It was Donaldson's turn to look puzzled. "Any residue in the car?"
"Oh, yes. Definitely. On the wound, on the seat, on the passenger side window. But–and this is the reason I've come here to discuss the matter with Lieutenant Flaherty– even though there's none on the victim's hand, there is on one of his gloves."
"There's your answer, sir."
"No. There's my question, and it's a big one. He wasn't wearing either glove. The gun and both gloves were under him where he fell over on the seat."
Donaldson smiled. "You won't need Lieutenant Flaherty to solve this one. Heisman wore Lee's gloves, shot him, threw the gun and gloves into the car, set the lock and slammed the door shut." He paused, and his eyes showed his surprise as the full realization of the problem struck him. "The anti car-hijacking locks were on!"
For the first time since the conversation had begun, the AG smiled. "Exactly. As you said, this is quite a safety car. When the driver gets in, he can lock it up from the inside with the touch of a button. Not only do the regular locks respond, but safety bars slide into place. It's an additional feature to keep the doors from snapping open in an accident and it's also, as you said, an anti car-jacking device. Even if someone has a key, they can't get into the car from the outside until the person in the car presses the release button. So that's where we stand.
"Now it's possible that Lee did kill himself. The direction of the bullet wound, slightly up through his right temple–he was right handed by the way–certainly fits. We even checked the floorboards, and there's no trap door or anything like that for someone to crawl through or fire through–absolutely no opening of any kind." Smiling wryly, he added, "That shows how desperate we've gotten.
"Confidentially, everyone in my office is convinced that Heisman killed Lee, but neither the police nor any of us have been able to figure out how he could have. As it is, we're left with two impossibilities. Lee killed himself and the glove flew off his hand somehow, or Heisman killed Lee while he was sitting inside a locked car with the windows rolled up. That's why I dropped by to talk to the Lieutenant."
Before Donaldson could ask any further questions–though he had none at the moment–Flaherty broke in. "Do you have any idea if Lee knew that Heisman was aware of the affair between Lee and Heisman's wife?"
"We're almost positive Lee didn't know that Heisman had learned about the affair. The receptionist who was working late in the law office said they seemed friendly as could be when they left that night to go to their cars. Even talked about racing to see who could zoom out first. That had become a standing joke with the office staff, by the way–the two of them bragging about their cars and talking about all the gimmicks on them."
Flaherty rose and picked up his overcoat. "Let's go pay a visit to Leo LaPlante Motors. Do you think Leo will let us inspect his floor model, Sergeant?"
Donaldson laughed. "He sure will, and he'll be glad to add your name to the long list of buyers, Lieutenant." To himself he said, "This is one the Lieutenant won't solve in fifty-minutes. We won't even be at the crime scene."
Leo greeted the trio with a car salesman's enthusiasm, quickly launching into all the safety features, as well as obscurities such as power trains, computerized jet intakes and a host of other such features, which only Donaldson paid much attention to.
Clicking the remote key, Leo treated them to a convertible top that opened and folded back slowly, quietly and efficiently. He gestured to them to climb aboard. Flaherty responded to the offer by turning to the Sergeant. Smiling, he said, "Let me have your service automatic Sergeant. Take out the clip, and make sure there isn't a round in the chamber, because I'm about to re-enact the crime–everything but the actual murder."
Mystified, but knowing better than to ask questions, Donaldson emptied his gun and handed it to the Lieutenant, who stuffed it into an overcoat pocket. "Now go and sit in the driver's seat. Run the windows up. Set the hi-jack locks on the doors, then do exactly what I tell you in the order in which I tell them to you. Then, when I say 'bang' fall over on the seat. Meantime," he turned to the AG, "you can participate by counting time from the moment I say that 'bang.'
The three onlookers appeared amused, but Donaldson immediately did as he was told, settling himself comfortably in the driver's seat. Rolling up the automatic windows and setting the hi-jack locks, he looked expectantly at the Lieutenant who was now leaning over the passenger's window, his right hand gloved, his left hand simply holding the other glove. "Ready?" he asked.
Donaldson nodded as Flaherty ordered, "Push the button to bring up the convertible top."
The Sergeant did as he was told.
"Now lean over and look at the outside rearview mirror."
The moment Donaldson did so, Flaherty pulled the automatic out of his pocket, aimed it at the Sergeant's head, said, 'bang' dropped the revolver on the seat along with his left hand glove, dropped the right glove next to it and got out in plenty of time to avoid the closing convertible top. Turning on his heel he walked briskly some forty feet across the show room floor. From that distance he asked the AG. "How long?"
"Just under a minute."
"That's all the time it would have taken for Heisman to kill Lee and get to his own car. He cooked up some story for Lee about trying out the car. As it is we're left with a choice between two impossibilities. Lee shot himself and the glove flew off his hand somehow, or someone managed to shoot him in a locked car.
"Well, it turns out the latter isn't really an impossibility–not for someone who was familiar with the car. Heisman knew the features on the Palomino, and pulled that last-minute stunt of asking him to lean over and look out the rearview mirror. Leaning over that way is what made the wound seem like the gun was fired from below rather than on the same level. All of this would really have been a lot easier for Heisman than it was for me, since he undoubtedly rehearsed the whole scene several times with his own car. Timed the closing of the top, for example.
"The only problem, of course, was the glove. If he could have figured out some way to get that on the dead man's hand after the murder, Heisman would be home free."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wasn't sure it was worth bothering Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty with the problem, especially since Flaherty had just gotten in to work and was probably only halfway through the morning crossword puzzle. But better safe than sorry, Donaldson decided, as he rapped on the doorjamb to the Lieutenant's office.
"Come in, come in," was the greeting. "I just filled in the last blank." As he spoke, the Lieutenant placed the pen and newspaper down on the desk and looked up expectantly.
"It's about that accidental death at Universal Concrete and Fabrication, sir. You did hear about it, didn't you?"
Flaherty shook his head. "I have enough to keep me busy dealing with homicides. But why the question? Is there some reason for thinking the death wasn't accidental?"
"No sir, not as far as I'm concerned, but the CEO of UC&F called yesterday afternoon. He thinks there is, but maybe he just doesn't want their insurance rates to go up, which they would if the accident was due to some negligence on the part of the company."
"Sounds interesting," Flaherty commented as he sat back in his chair, his hands behind his head. "Fill me in from the beginning."
Taking several sheets out of the manila folder he was carrying, Donaldson began summarizing the report. "Joseph Daniel Emerson–age fifty-six, white, night watchman for Universal Concrete and Fabrication–was found dead in the robot cage." The Sergeant looked up at that point to explain. "The section of the plant that Emerson was found in turns out prestressed concrete. The cage is a section of the plant where the cables that are installed in the concrete sections are pulled taut by a series of robot arms. It's no place to be when the machinery is working."
Flaherty nodded, and Donaldson continued. "If the cage needs maintenance, the worker shuts off the power to it from a control panel and then, as an additional safety feature, pulls the plug and affixes his name tag to the receptacle. That way, anyone else on the floor would know there's someone working there. Emerson was alone at night, as he usually is and, for some reason, went into the cage. Well, his body was found yesterday morning, crushed by a robot arm. His nametag was on the empty receptacle, and the power was off. The floor supervisor listed it as an accidental death due to a crossed circuit in the power system."
"Was Emerson authorized to enter the cage?"
"Yes, sir. He used to be on day operations, but he had some health problems and was moved over to the security job several months ago. He did maintenance at night if needed, mainly minor items. You know, changing burnt-out light bulbs and the like."
"So what happened to make the CEO think it wasn't an accident?"
"He says they had one of their top electrical engineers check out the entire system. According to the engineer, there was no possible way that an electrical cross over could have caused the robot arm to engage.
"So the CEO insists that someone came in while Emerson was in the cage, took his tag off the receptacle, put in the plug, went over to the control panel and threw the switch. Then, after Emerson got whacked, opened the switch again, took out the plug and put the nametag back on the receptacle. It all sounded pretty far-fetched to me, but I went out to the plant yesterday and spent all afternoon questioning the workers."
"And?"
"Absolutely no reason for anyone to kill him. He was easygoing, well liked. Strictly a family man. I even checked with his wife and neighbors. He's an elder of the church, born-again Christian. Doesn't run around. Sound financially. House all paid for. Kids grown and off on their own. No gambling, no booze, no skirt chasing. Doesn't even watch TV, according to his wife. Spends a lot of time at his computer."
Flaherty smiled. "Too dull to kill. Right?"
"That's what I think, sir."
"Well, you seemed to have done a thorough job and a fast one, too. Maybe I'll drop around and see Mrs. Emerson, just to check on a few things."
Donaldson repressed his own smile, but couldn't resist commenting. "I know the chief suspect is always the spouse, but Mrs. Emerson has an iron-clad alibi. She was at a church social until almost midnight, and the estimated time of death is somewhere around eleven. So she has her minister and about seventy of the parishioners vouching for her presence."
"Even so. That's a good place to start. And I've got an empty afternoon that needs filling. Let's get out to the Emersons right after lunch."
After expressing the necessary condolences to the bereaved widow, who was surrounded by a group of sympathetic friends, Flaherty asked her if her husband had had any hobbies.
"No. He was a very quiet man. He lived for his work and service to the church. He did spend a lot of time at the computer–on the net or whatever it is you call it. I don't know much about that sort of thing. He seemed to do a lot of typing. Letters, I guess. I really don't understand what it was all about. Now, I much prefer Who Wants to be a Millionaire>. That Mr. Regis is so nice. He so much wants the contestants to win. Why he…"
"Could we take a look at his computer?"
Led into a small room serving as something of an office, Flaherty gestured toward the seat in front of the screen. Donaldson was only too pleased to show off his expertise, however limited, in front of Flaherty. His good fortune held in that Emerson had simply used his last name as a password. Within moments an extensive and increasingly warm and lengthy correspondence filled the screen. The recipient was one Colleen4@aol. Her full name, Colleen Fitzsimmons, and her address, in a district across town, appeared in one of the more recent letters.
In an even more recent email, Emerson described in some detail his duties at the plant, including the robot cage, the need to remove the plug, the use of the name tag, the cutting off of power. "The high point of the evening is when I go up to that room around ten to have an evening snack. I sit there with my thermos of coffee and think of you. It's so quiet there, soundproof walls and everything. It's perfect for being alone with my own thoughts, almost as good as sitting here writing to you."
"Let's go!" Flaherty said, turning toward the door.
Donaldson looked puzzled as he followed his boss out the door. "Sir? Surely you don't suspect her? She wouldn't have had any reason to kill him. She was obviously enjoying the correspondence."
Donaldson was at the wheel of the car, and Flaherty had strapped himself into the passenger seat before answering the Sergeant's questions.
"You're right, Donaldson. I don't suspect her, but I think she'll help us find out who the murderer is."
It took a bit of doing. From a neighbor they found out that Colleen Fitzsimmons worked as a receptionist in a nearby dental clinic. Though the reception area was full when they arrived, the puzzled Colleen agreed to answer their questions in the privacy of the bookkeeper's office. Yes, she did spend a lot of time writing email letters. A reddened face accompanied an admission to a long correspondence with one Joseph Daniel Emerson along with the statement that she wondered why she hadn't heard from him the previous day and the admission that she had never met him. Later, Sergeant Donaldson convinced himself that he would have asked the next question if Lieutenant Flaherty hadn't.
From the clinic, the two officers drove to a downtown used car lot where Eustace Fitzsimmons was lounging while waiting hopefully for potential customers. It took him only a few moments to be disabused of that notion after the approach of the two men. An admission that his wife was addicted to being online with her computer, his further admission that he was aware of her extensive email correspondence though she didn't know he was tapping into it when she wasn't home, and his final inability to provide anything resembling an alibi for the time of Emerson's death led to a confession that preceded his mirandization.
"She wasn't even talking to me anymore. Just writing back and forth to that sap. I couldn't take it anymore."
Even after having been read his rights, he could scarcely control his anger at the man who had stolen his wife's affections through cyberspace.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was as exasperated at the Deputy Coroner's tone of voice as he was at his completely false assumptions about the homicide.
"Look, Sergeant," the DC was saying for the second time; "It's obvious the guy was killed right here." He pointed to the couch that had been the corpse's resting-place. "You can tell from livor mortis, that is, from the puddling of the blood on his backside and hip, that he wasn't moved. He was dead when he fell and that's where he fell. And it won't take one of those experts on spattering to figure out what happened.
"See," he continued, taking Donaldson's arm and walking him over to the couch, now that the scene of crime crew had finished their work and the body had been removed. "Take a look at that blood. He was standing right here, probably arguing with his murderer, just about where you're standing." The DC raised a fist holding an imaginary knife and drove it toward Donaldson's chest. "Killed him instantly, and he fell on the couch with the blood spurting all over it." His hand waved at the congealed matter on the cushion and the red spots running in a wide pattern across the back and down the front of the couch.
"No question about it. And it all happened around nine o'clock. Give or take no more than half an hour." Donaldson rolled his eyes at the scenario and even more at the time constraints the DC was insisting upon.
The arrival of Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty brought yet another repetition of the story by the DC while he was stripping off his plastic gloves, packing up his equipment and preparing to leave. Though doing a poor job of curbing or hiding his impatience, the Sergeant did manage to keep from interrupting–saving his version of what happened until the DC had finally left with a last look of disgust directed at Donaldson.
Before the Sergeant could say anything, Flaherty–with a trace of a smile on his face–turned to him and said, "I get the feeling you don't agree with the Deputy Coroner. What's wrong with his description of what happened?"
"Everything, sir. The murdered man–his name is Jeffrey Whipple, by the way–couldn't have been killed that early. And, if he was, there's no way that he could have died here."
"OK. I'm listening. I'll take a look around while you fill me in."
Donaldson might have been annoyed at his chief's seeming lack of attention if he hadn't known that Flaherty could do several things at the same time, and that he was probably eager to get back to the warm bed the twelve-thirty a.m. call had made him leave behind.
The tour of the shack took only a few minutes. It was one of ten in a row of identical structures. They were tiny, individual units paid for by a federal grant to house the homeless. The mayor's brother happened to be the contractor who had built them, and he had managed to do so in the cheapest way possible, also supplying everything from furniture, to curtains, to kitchenware–purchased in large lots at bargain prices.
All of the units were virtually identical. The front room was furnished with the flimsy narrow couch the body had lain on, two equally cheap overstuffed chairs, and a couple of end tables. The only item that didn't seem to fit the picture was the enormous television set, which Donaldson speculated had been added by its deceased owner. It seemed to indicate the once homeless man had become more or less gainfully employed after qualifying for the unit.
"You see, sir, there was a party going on here until eleven. I've already talked to the murdered man's girlfriend and checked her story with two of her friends. The three of them were planning on meeting at her apartment to watch that coal mine television show–you know the one where all those characters with claustrophobia are trying to outlast each other in that mine? Well, her TV went out, so the three of them came rushing over here. Got here just before nine. That's when the show comes on, and it's a two-hour show.
"Anyhow, he didn't want to watch. According to her, he was a couple of sheets to the wind when they got here, was dozing off and angry at being awakened. He works nights, and when he stomped out, she just figured he was going to the corner tavern to top off before heading out to his job. The women brought a six-pack of their own and then raided a supply he had in the fridge after theirs ran out, so they weren't feeling much pain by the time the show was over.
"In fact, they got to celebrating, loud enough so the next-door neighbor came over and told them to quiet down. Said she was sick and tired of all the noise. I checked with her, and both her and her husband confirmed the girlfriend's statement. The woman said she saw the other two sitting on that couch, slurping it up." Donaldson grinned. "From the looks of her, she'd been doing some celebrating, herself."
"I guess a few sharp words were interchanged, because the girlfriend and her buddies decided they didn't like the neighborhood and took off shortly afterwards. Now, it's too much to believe that the neighbors and those three are in cahoots. Someone either killed him right here between eleven and twelve, or they killed him someplace else and brought him here while he was still bleeding. The DC is just plain wrong about the time or place of the murder–or both."
"Who discovered the body?"
"Guy at the all-night service station two blocks away. Whipple was supposed to relieve him at midnight. When he didn't show, the attendant called him, and after not getting an answer, he locked up and came over. Knocked. No answer. Tried the door. It was unlocked. When he looked in, it took him only a few seconds to decide to call nine-one-one."
Flaherty shrugged. "It looks as though we may have to interrogate a lot of people. We might as well start with the nearest ones."
Donaldson could almost feel the pain the neighbors were experiencing. They were aroused only after long and loud knocking. A disheveled couple, her in a bathrobe, him with a pair of hastily donned trousers–both looking as though they were in the throes of a super hangover, one that apparently involved more than alcohol's after effects. Donaldson suspected an amphetamine downer. The woman was a tall, heavy-set woman in her forties but dwarfed by her burly companion, who had massive arms, was barrel-chested, and stood at least six-foot-six in his bare feet.
"Just a couple of questions," Flaherty said, after showing his badge. The woman nodded and flinched. The man simply stood there, and even that effort seemed to be too much for him. Reluctantly the couple backed away from the doorway as Flaherty simply walked in.
"I already told him everything," the woman said, starting to nod in Donaldson's direction but settling for pointing a finger at him instead.
Flaherty seemed to be only half listening as he looked around the room that was virtually identical to that of the victim's. The one exception was that this television set was considerably smaller, but the Lieutenant's attention was fixed on the couch. Without asking the questions he'd mentioned, he inspected the couch and the area around it, then beckoned to Donaldson. "Get a couple of patrol cars out here," he ordered.
***
As the two officers watched the couple being driven off to the station, handcuffed and in the back of separate police cars, Donaldson couldn't restrain his curiosity. "How did you figure it out so fast, sir?"
"I simply assumed that the DC was right about the time and about the fact that the body had never been moved. After all, that's his area of expertise. But you've been in this game long enough so that I trusted your judgment that the killing couldn't have taken place in Whipple's house. The only possibility then was that it happened somewhere else on that couch. So now we know Whipple dropped in next-door at eight, wanted money for dope he'd sold his neighbors. They got into a fight, and Whipple ended up dead on the couch.
"They were just going to dump the body somewhere, but they knew they'd have to get rid of the couch, which would be a lot harder to do. That's when it occurred to them to just carry Whipple over, couch and all, and substitute it for his. So she went over at eleven, complained about the noise, and as soon as the women left, the switch was made via the back doors."
"Phew. It must have been quite a job wrestling the couch and a body out the back door and into Whipple's house."
"Not for two with that kind of brawn. Besides the couch was narrow enough to fit through the doors without tipping it."
Donaldson shook his head. "I guess so, but drunk as they were, and high on speed besides, I can't understand how they could have been that smart."
"They really weren't all that smart. If they had been they'd have cleaned the blood off the wall behind their couch."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was even more impressed with the liquor collection than he was with the expensively dressed trio who had been finalizing a business deal at Chairman Clifton Fassbinder's palatial penthouse apartment. Few of the city's best restaurants could lay claim to such a well-stocked bar. Shelf after crowded shelf stretched along the wall, and the bar itself was lined with dozens of bottles just waiting to be emptied by the thirsty connoisseur.
He shook himself out of his reverie long enough to register Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty's question. "Have you had a chance to do any questioning?" Flaherty indicated with his head the woman and the two men who had gathered at one end of the large living room, as far away as possible from the scene-of-crime personnel working around the body at the other end.
"I had a tough time getting a word in edgewise. The company's accountant wanted to do all the talking. I guess he figures he can come up with who killed Bruce Denny in less than fifty minutes."
Flaherty broke into a grin. "Let's give him a chance. I'll talk to him first. Bring him into the library and take notes on what he has to say."
Maurice Hereforth was a tall, thin, dark-haired individual, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties. He was indeed eager to talk.
"I know Mr. Fassbinder's going to be blamed, but he had absolutely no reason to kill Mr. Denny. The agreement to sell the company to Mr. Denny was definitely one-sided–all on Mr. Fassbinder's side. I'm sure it was all a tragic accident. Now, if he were going to kill anyone, it would have been Mrs. Denny. That woman is insufferable. She couldn't wait to move into the company as a board member. She must have been in to see Mr. Fassbinder about the transition at least a half dozen times this past week. Was even threatening to invalidate the contract if he didn't move out soon. And," His voice lowered, "she's the one with the money. Mr. Denny has been terribly nervous about how she was acting."
"So this party was to celebrate the changeover?"
"Not really. This was the changeover. Mr. Fassbinder thought it would be nice to do the final signing here, tonight. The attorneys cleared all the paper, and I was invited to answer any questions about the finances. Not that there was anything to explain. Not really. After all... "
"When did everyone arrive?"
"The Dennys arrived shortly after I did. Around eight. We were just about to settle down to business when Mr. Fassbinder received an important phone call that he took in the other room. He waved us over to the bar and told us to help ourselves."
"Do you recall what everyone was drinking?"
Hereforth made a face. "The Denny's were drinking some strange kind of whiskey. My drink is Southern Comfort. I don't know what Mr. Fassbinder drinks. Something clear. Vodka, I suppose. I had the feeling he'd had one or two before we arrived. But then I guess he was celebrating his retirement. We were still sipping our drinks when Mr. Fassbinder finally joined us after finishing his phone call."
"One round of drinks?"
"I had only one. I'm not much of a drinker. Not really. I think Mr. Denny had two. I remember him going back to the bar. Mrs. Denny was still nursing her first drink when Mr. Fassbinder returned."
"Could you give me some idea of what happened then?"
"Mostly it was small talk while we finished our drinks and looked out at the view. Splendid view from the balcony, by the way."
"Then what?"
"Mrs. Denny was impatient to get to the paperwork, so we came in and she immediately started going through the documents and asking questions."
"Was that when Mr. Denny had his next drink?"
Hereforth shook his head. "If I remember correctly, he went to the bar to get a drink for his wife. Mr. Fassbinder was behind the bar, but I don't know who poured what. I wasn't watching at the time. Mr. Fassbinder took his and Mrs. Denny's drinks over to the table where she was going through the papers, and that's when Mr. Denny called me aside to talk about some accounting matters."
"Just the two of you?'
"Yes. It was a rather private matter having to do with company finances. At least he felt it was private. I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted the others to overhear what we were discussing. I mean, there wasn't anything really confidential about the matter. Not really."
"Was he drinking at the time?"
"No. He kept looking over at his wife and Mr. Fassbinder. As usual, she was arguing with him. Raising her voice. I couldn't tell what she was saying. But the whole scene seemed to be upsetting Mr. Denny. He wasn't listening to me. Not really. Just watching the others. That's very annoying when you're speaking to someone about important matters and they don't give you their attention. I'm certain he was afraid Mrs. Denny would back out at the last moment."
"So neither Mr. Fassbinder nor Mrs. Denny were drinking at the time. Is that correct?"
"Well, I couldn't say. Not really. I don't think they were, since they were so engrossed in the documents. I could see they were completely caught up with what they were doing."
"What happened then?"
"Well, I could see it was hopeless trying to discuss financial matters with someone who wasn't listening, so I suggested that we join the others at the table. After all, it really was just a matter of a few signatures by then, and I was quite ready to go home. It had been a long day."
"That was when Mr. Denny started drinking again?"
Hereforth nodded. "Before we did the signing, Mr. Denny suggested we drink to the occasion, and Mr.Fassbinder volunteered to get drinks for the two of us–Mr. Denny and me. Oh, yes. There's your answer. Mr. Fassbinder's glass was full. So was Mrs. Denny's. So they hadn't been drinking. When Mr. Fassbinder returned with the drinks and sat down, Bruce raised his glass, touched his to ours and said something like, 'here's to success.' The rest of us just took sips, but he upended the glass and within seconds was gasping for breath and fell to the floor."
"Who called nine-one-one?"
"Mr. Fassbinder, I believe. Yes, I'm quite sure. Mrs. Denny was too upset to do anything. I was trying to revive Mr. Denny. I had some training in CPR, but that was centuries ago and, anyway, I'm quite sure he was already dead."
"Thank you, Mr. Hereforth. I wonder if you could ask Mr. Fassbinder to step in.
As Hereforth left the room, seemingly more bothered by the brevity of the interrogation than by any of the questions, Flaherty told Donaldson to get a statement from Mrs. Denny. He was to inquire about her version of when and where the fatal drink had been poured and who might have done the pouring.
Clifton Fassbinder was a short, sixtyish, portly, myopic man with wisps of black hair combed across his bald head. He was wearing a light blue suit with an ugly and clashing green and red tie fastened with a diamond stickpin. A large wedding band and several other rings adorned his pudgy hands. The finishing touch was a pair of brown shoes. Unlike his accountant, words didn't come readily from him. In addition, he was obviously nervous, making it that much more difficult for him to express himself.
"Who poured Bruce Denny's last drink?"
"I–I did."
"Why didn't he just serve himself?"
"He could have. The bar was available to anyone who wanted to mix their own. But I–I guess you might say, I volunteered. Now, I wish I hadn't."
"What did he ask for?"
"A Fennerly Red Label."
"Scotch, I believe?"
Fassbinder seemed to relax a little. "Yes. Twenty-year Scotch. Some of the best. I prefer vodka, but I try to keep a well-stocked bar for friends. I do a lot of entertaining."
"Didn't Mr. Denny ask for a drink for his wife?"
"Oh, yes, earlier in the evening. A Fennerly Green Label. It's a much milder Scotch." Fassbinder's broad face broke into a smile. "Really a woman's drink."
"Did anyone else have access to Mr. Denny's last drink?"
Fassbinder became markedly uneasy at the question. "I'm sure I can't say. I really don't see all that well. Used to wear contacts, but they were a terrible nuisance. Then went in for that laser surgery. I guess it works for most people. Didn't for me. Eyes are worse now, if anything. I suppose I'll have to go back to contacts–or eyeglasses, worse yet."
Flaherty smiled as he had a glimpse into the man's vanity. "How long has Hereforth been working for you?"
The change of topic seemed to relax Fassbinder again. "Close to ten years. He was very unhappy about my selling out. Excellent accountant, by the way. Wouldn't have known what to do without him all these years. Not much of a partygoer though, I'm afraid." He smiled. "I've invited him out a dozen times, but this is the first time he's been here. Not much of a drinker, either. About all he knows is Southern Comfort and water."
"Have the Denny's been here before this evening?"
Fassbinder nodded. "This deal has been near the fire for a long while. I've had them out a half-dozen times or so to discuss the terms."
"I think that about covers it. Would you ask the Sergeant to come back in? Thank you."
Lounging back in a comfortable leather chair, Flaherty waited for Donaldson to sit before asking, "Any ideas?"
"No question about it, sir. The only one who could have poisoned Denny is Fassbinder. The poison was cyanide. Fassbinder put it in the bottle. It would have been easy for him to do it since they milled around for a while before they sat down to sign the final contract. Give me the word, and I'll go out and charge Fassbinder."
Flaherty smiled as he said, "But the poison is in the Green Label bottle and Denny was drinking Red Label."
Donaldson looked baffled.
Flaherty shook his head. "Are you aware that Fassbinder is color blind?"
"No, sir. How do you know that?"
"Look at what he's wearing."
"I see what you mean. My wife would have a fit if I wore a green and red tie with a blue suit."
"Right. To say nothing of those brown shoes with the blue suit. And rather obviously Fassbinder doesn't currently have a wife. Widower I imagine."
"How do you know that, sir?"
"Wedding ring. Unlikely to wear it if he were divorced, and unlikely to wear such clashing clothes if his wife were here to check on him. Not only that, his eyesight is just generally bad."
"So?"
"So he could easily have confused the two bottles.
"Oh, I see. He may have simply put the poison in the Green Label by mistake." Donaldson's jaw fell open. "That's it, sir! It was a mistake when he poisoned the bottles. I couldn't figure out why he would want to kill Denny. That really bothered me. But he had lots of reasons to want to kill Mrs. Denny. According to Hereforth, she was trying to queer the whole deal."
"But isn't it rather strange that he would do it in a way where he'd be immediately suspected? After all, he brought her her last drink."
The frown lines in Donaldson's forehead deepened. "That's right." Then his face lightened. "But Denny would have been suspected because the poison would have been in the bottle, not the drink. That would have gotten Fassbinder of the hook."
"But if Fassbinder was going to poison anyone, wouldn't he have been damn sure he was poisoning the right person? Confusing one scotch with another is a minor matter, but not if you know one of them has been poisoned."
Suddenly excited, Donaldson said, "So someone else put poison in the bottle. It was intended for anyone who drank Green Label. And Mrs. Denny was the only one who did. Then Fassbinder brought Denny the wrong drink, one with poison in it."
Flaherty smiled. "You're on the right track, now, Donaldson. Fassbinder didn't put in the poison. We know Hereforth didn't, for several reasons. He had no way of knowing he would have had the opportunity to do so, never having been here before. Also, he didn't know what kind of scotch the others drank. And, even if he did, he certainly wouldn't have wanted to kill Mrs. Denny, since she was the only hope for stopping a sale, which he didn't want to see go through."
"That leaves Mrs. Denny."
"No. She most certainly wouldn't have poisoned the Green Label, her drink of preference, if she wanted to kill her husband."
"That's it, sir! There is someone else. Bruce Denny put the poison in the bottle after the first round of drinks intending to kill his wife and have the blame fall on Fassbinder. Instead, he ended up poisoning himself."
Flaherty's smile widened as he nodded, "In a way you might say it was suicide. Inadvertent suicide.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson couldn't believe his luck. Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty had actually been able to come up with airfare and expenses for both of them to go to the Police Forensic Association meeting in Boston, and he'd managed to do it out of the department's skimpy travel budget. Three days! The last meeting even close to something like that had been four years ago, an eighty-mile chartered bus trip to a county sheriffs' convention.
The Lieutenant seemed to know everyone at the PFA meeting, and he made it a point to introduce Donaldson as his co-worker. The end of the first day's sessions found the two of them debating whether to return to their hotel before dinner or to simply lounge around the convention hall, or perhaps even kill the next hour looking at the exhibits. Before they had reached a decision, Homicide Captain Liam O'Toole of the Boston PD came by and clapped the Lieutenant on the shoulder. "Hey, Flaherty, how about you and your henchman coming with me on a busman's holiday? There's been a murder at Revere Beach, and Revere called us for help. Lieutenant McGuire has it under control, but this could be your chance to see the BPD in action."
There was no hesitation on either Flaherty or Donaldson's part, so they were herded out and into a comfortable town car equipped with a flasher. As they raced through the Boston streets with an occasional blast on the siren at intersections, the Captain filled them in on what to expect. "Part of the TAC squad's out there already, because we might have a terrorist operation in the works. Bunch of Arabs. I've got the preliminary report right here." He grinned as he punched a button on the back of the front seat. "Not like the old days. Crime scene reports are recorded immediately. Details are written up later. Sort of like the way autopsies are performed."
A voice broke in over the car's speakers. "Sergeant Patrick McGuire reporting to Captain O'Toole from homicide scene at Revere Beach, standing in front of the Liban Hot Dog Stand, two hundred and fifty yards north of the two-mile marker, across the road from the beach. Victim's name is Michael Boustami. He's a twenty-nine-year-old pharmacist. He was part of a family gathering on the beach, was out in shallow water and just seemed to be horsing around. Lifeguard didn't think anything of it at first, then when the victim started floating face down, he went out to check. Assumed it was a drowning, though victim seemed to be having convulsions.
"The lifeguard pulled him ashore, and was checking his mouth before starting resuscitation. Found remnants of a bun and hot dog and figured victim must have choked. By the time medics showed up, victim was definitely dead. That's when one of them smelled the hot dog. According to him, strychnine smells a little like curry powder, and no curry was used at the party. From the symptoms, it definitely seems to be strychnine. Medical examiner took one look at the body and said it just about had to be. Immediate rigor mortis. Facial contortions. I suppose other clues, too. He'll wait for the postmortem to be sure, of course.
"The family was in an uproar by the time I arrived on the scene with Officer Callahan. Wife–Celeste Boustami–was hysterical and medic gave her a sedative. Simon Boustami, the grandfather, who's head of the family, says the hot dogs were purchased from the Liban Hot Dog Stand, just across the road from the beach. Turns out the proprietor is Moslem Lebanese, and this family is Christian Lebanese. I checked the stand's trash and found a hypodermic with signs of what may be strychnine, so I booked them–the proprietor Mahmoud Saad and his younger brother Wahid. They're on the way to the station right now.
"The younger brother refused to talk to us and tried to keep Mahmoud quiet, only he wouldn't shut up. Said he would never have killed just one of the family, but would have wiped out the whole bunch of them. Claims their mother and father were massacred by Christian Lebanese at Sabrah, and he's not about to forgive them. Since there are several Lebanese families out here at the beach, some Christian and some Moslem, feelings began running pretty high, so I called in the TAC squad. Everything's quiet right now, and I'll keep the area roped off until you get here, Captain."
The last words of the report were confirmed by the scene that awaited them. Crowds had gathered, but were isolated from a large central area on the beach by yellow tapes and several policemen wearing riot gear. In the cleared area, a picnic table had been set up with various items of food and eating utensils scattered across it. Near the table, a heavy-set, blanket-covered figure was stretched out on a carrier where an ambulance was backed up, ready to load. Two medics were standing by, waiting for the signal. Several people, obviously the Boustami family, were sitting some distance away. A wailing woman was being consoled by others. A grey-haired, bearded man, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, approached the newcomers. Two boys, some ten or twelve years of age, tagged along.
As soon as the group were within earshot, the policeman said, "Captain, this is Mr. Simon Boustami, the Grandfather of the victim. He said he can give you all the details about what happened." As he spoke, he handed the Captain a list of the people attending the beach party.
Glancing at the list, O'Toole nodded, saying, "Fine, Callahan." Then, turning to the old man, added, "Please do tell us what you know."
"It was the hotdogs."
Donaldson figuratively shook his head, anticipating that the Boston-Lebanese would be like so many of the witnesses he'd interrogated in his years on the force. Those were the kind who loved to elaborate on the obvious, drift off into irrelevancies and seldom gave straight answers to straight questions. He wasn't far wrong.
"We were getting ready to eat. The young ones had been promised hot dogs. I can't stand them myself, with all that other mishmash they put on them. And then Celeste, who was going to heat them up, checked the cold box and saw there weren't enough–not enough for the way my family eats, especially Michael." A headshake followed the victim's name. "He was my favorite grandson. Did fine in business."
O'Toole broke into the reminiscence. "The hot dogs."
"Oh yes, the hotdogs. Well, when Celeste said there weren't enough–she's Michael's wife–I sent the boys here. The tall one is Peter, the other one is Matthew. They're my son James's children. The young ones call them Pete and Matt. I guess everyone has nicknames these days. When I was a boy it wasn’t that way"
"Where did you send them?"
An inclined head indicated the direction. "I sent them over to the Saads to pick up two packages. The grocery store is too far away, and even though I don't like to buy from them, we needed the hot dogs right away. They don't like to sell them that way. They want to sell them one at a time, cooked. That way they make more money. Moslems are all that way, you know."
"But the boys did get the packages, right?"
"Yes. Of course. I told them not to come back without them."
"I gave them to Celeste," Pete chimed in.
"No you didn't," Matt contradicted. "You gave them to Uncle Cochon, and he gave them to Celeste."
"Who's this Caution person?" O'Toole asked. "He's not on the list."
Pete and Matt both found the question amusing. Grandfather Boustami sounded exasperated as he explained, "Another nickname. That's what the young ones called Michael. You will have to ask Celeste who gave the hot dogs to her. But, anyway, she opened a package and started to heat them. As soon as they were warm, she began putting them in buns and setting them out on the table. Michael took one and started off to the water with it."
"Cochon was always first," Matt commented solemnly.
Donaldson was pleased to see that the old man seemed to have finally gotten down to the essentials, and that Lieutenant Maguire, who had just joined them after taking statements from the rest of the party, had solved the crime in a lot less time than even the fifty minutes Lieutenant Flaherty was famous for. Of course, it was a pretty easy one to resolve, considering that the Moslems and Christian Lebanese hated each other so much. It was just lucky for the party goers that only one of the hot dogs had been poisoned, because several had been eaten without ill effects after Michael had gone off for his last swim. But the obviousness of the case did make the Sergeant wonder why Flaherty began asking questions.
"Are those the evidence sacks over there?" the Lieutenant asked, indicating some labeled evidence bags on the table."
"Yeah," Maguire said. "We put all the unopened packages of hot dogs in that one." He indicated a red-labeled bag. "The one with the green label has the opened package the poisoned dog came out of. The blue-labeled bag is the one with the hot dogs that came out of that package. Lucky for the others in the party, those weren't poisoned because some of them have already been eaten. The one with the blue label has the food remnants taken from the victim."
"Mind if I take a look inside?"
Maguire seemed puzzled by the question, then shrugged. "Can't see why not. The lab will check them all for poison, of course, but it won't hurt to look at them."
The only bag Flaherty seemed interested in was the one containing the opened package. Donaldson came over to look as well, and Flaherty then asked what the Sergeant thought was a strange question, even by the Lieutenant's standards. "You don't happen to remember any of your high school French, by any chance, do you Donaldson?"
Recovering quickly from his surprise, he answered, "As a matter of fact, I do, Lieutenant. My oldest is taking French and she's been bugging me into remembering a lot of it."
"What does cochon mean?"
"I'm pretty sure it means pig."
"I'm pretty sure you're right. Any guesses as to why he was called that?" With a slight inclination of his head, Flaherty indicated the stretcher, which was now finally being picked up and loaded into the ambulance by the two medics, with the additional help of two burly policeman.
In spite of himself, Donaldson grinned. "Anyone who weighs that much must have eaten like a pig."
"And speaking of pig, how about reading the ingredients on the package that contained the poisoned hot dog." Flaherty held the sack up for Donaldson to peer in.
The grin widened. "The first ingredient is pork. Looks like Pig got poisoned by a pig."
"Do you happen to know how Moslems feel about pork?"
Donaldson's grin disappeared. His eyes widened. "Lieutenant Maguire said this was the only opened package."
"Right."
"So it wasn't one of the Saad brothers' packages."
"Right, again. Moslems would not only not eat pork, but they won't even touch it. Any bets that we'll find two unopened packages of pork-free hotdogs in that other trash sack?"
The trip back to the convention center was a quick one, because Captain O'Toole was hungry and he wanted to be sure to get there in plenty of time to put in his order before serving began. Even so, he managed to keep his mind off of food long enough to ask Flaherty what tipped him off.
"It was a whole combination of things. That syringe in the Saads' trash was just too much to accept. Leaving evidence like that lying around would have been the work of idiots, not of two reasonably successful businessmen. A trashcan is an easy place for practically anyone to plant things.
"And, it struck me as kind of strange that this picnic was so poorly planned that they didn't bring enough hot dogs. Then I gave it all some more thought and asked myself the same question Mahmoud Saad asked. Why kill just one Christian? So when it looked like only one of the hotdogs had poison in it, then I assumed it was directed at a specific victim. And who would be in a better position to know about strychnine, its effects, and how easy it would be to mask the bitter taste with mustard and relish–a couple of hot dog sellers, or a pharmacist's wife? Now, even so, killing a specific person that way is not an easy thing to accomplish at a party where everyone's hungry, where there are a lot of kids eager to dig in, unless." He hesitated.
Donaldson finished the statement for him. "Unless you happen to be a wife who knows her husband's going to grab the first food you put out on the table, because he's been doing that for years. So she fills one hotdog with strychnine, dumps the syringe in the Saad's trashcan sometime earlier in the day, and sets it all up to poison her husband. I guess the fact that he was nicknamed 'cochon' also tipped you off, didn't it, Lieutenant."
With just a trace of a smile on his face, Flaherty nodded. "Christian Lebanese being more likely to speak French than Arabic did kind of help."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson cocked his head as he listened to the crackling scanner in Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty's office. Flaherty had already picked up his coat and was heading for the door.
From what he'd heard, Donaldson decided the Lieutenant's presence wouldn't really be needed. The officer on the scene was reporting back that the owner of a liquor store in the eleven hundreds block of Branway had been killed in a holdup. Solving the crime would take a lot of slogging and footwork, searching for witnesses, tracking down informants, checking mug shots–all in all a long, drawn-out job, not something that could be solved in the time that had given the Lieutenant his nickname.
When they arrived in the store's parking lot, Officer Martin confirmed Donaldson's thoughts. He briefed his superiors with a few terse words. "It was a one-man operation. Pulled into the lot around eleven. Wore a ski mask, went in, shot and killed the owner, scooped the twenties out of the register–then came running out and roared away."
The scene-of-crime van with several personnel aboard pulled into the lot at that moment, the passengers quickly and efficiently moving their equipment into the store. Flaherty, on the other hand, showed no indication of any interest in the crime scene, but instead eyed Officer Martin closely before asking, "Did you know the owner?"
A nod was the answer, then, "My home's just a couple of blocks away. My wife and I were both local kids and have lived here for over twenty years. Mike Malone, the owner, wasn't exactly a friend, but we've known him since he opened the store ten, twelve years ago."
"Was it a one-man store?"
Again a nod. "Open six days a week, three to twelve. The killer couldn't have been local or he would have known Mike never kept much cash in the drawer. There was a time-locked safe behind the counter, and he would always put the big bills in it as they came in. I don't imagine the register ever had more than a couple of hundred in it at any time."
"That was a pretty complete description of what happened. Who were the witnesses?"
"Two teen-age girls. Sisters. They're in the back of the patrol car." He nodded toward it. "Good kids. Smart, too. They called in the robbery while it was happening. Kept their heads, and kept out of sight. Now they're more scared of what their Dad's going to say about their being out so late than of what they saw.
Flaherty headed for the car, saying, "I'd like to question them while all this is still fresh in their minds."
Mary Anne, the oldest, who might have been all of sixteen, was also the vocal one of the pair. She needed little urging to repeat what she had already told the officer. "Maggie and I were coming down the alley, just behind those bushes." She waved a hand at a privet hedge that bordered the lot. "A car pulled in about then. We wouldn't have thought much about it, but he seemed to be in a real hurry. Slammed on his breaks, left the lights on and jumped out of the car. When we saw the ski mask and the gun he was carrying, we both backed down the alley. I had my cell phone and that's when I dialed nine-one-one."
Officer Martin interrupted. "That's what I mean by smart. The operator even heard the shots."
Mary Anne seemed pleased at the comment then broke back in. "While I was talking to the operator and giving her directions, there were two shots–real loud–and he came running out almost right away, jumped into his car and took off. He sure burned rubber when he left. I wanted to go into the store, but Maggie insisted we wait for the police. Him and his partner," she gestured toward Officer Martin, "showed up in just a few minutes. They must have been close by when they got the call." She paused, before adding, "I'm glad we didn't go in."
"Did you get a look at the car?"
Maggie was the one who answered that question. "It was a compact, a Honda Civic, I'm sure."
Mary Anne giggled. "The reason she knows is because her boy friend has one just like it, only a lot older."
The answer was a sniff. "Not that much older. This one was new. This year's model, I'll bet. Light color. Kind of tan."
"I don't suppose you remember the number."
Maggie's answer was immediate. "I looked, but they were painted over or had mud on them or something."
While they were speaking, a car pulled into the lot and a visibly upset older man got out. A whispered "Oh, oh. Dad!" came from Maggie. Flaherty left Donaldson to deal with and mollify the anxious parent, while he took Officer Martin aside for answers to further questions.
"Was Malone the sole owner?"
"Yes, sir. He ran the store all by himself."
"Married?"
"No, sir. No relatives except a couple of distant cousins living in Australia."
"Any idea who gets the store?"
Officer Martin broke into a grin. "I sure do. It's the diocese. Mike called me in to witness the will. I don't imagine Bishop Shaugnessy will want to keep running it."
Flaherty smiled at the comment and at his own thoughts. "It's also hard to believe the bishop would be the one who knocked over the store. What was Malone like? Did he socialize much with the neighbors?"
"Not really. He was nice enough, but kind of a loner. And he didn't live here. He had an apartment downtown somewhere."
"No women?"
"Not really. But now that you mention it, sir, there was one lately. He wasn't a drinker, by the way, that's why I was surprised last week when I saw him in Moriarty's tavern with Liam Kilpatrick's wife. They're separated, so I guess there was nothing wrong with his having a beer with her. It was just kind of surprising to see him around after store closing time."
Flaherty called to Donaldson who had finished congratulating the father for having such wonderful daughters. "We have to pay a visit to a Liam Kilpatrick. Let's go."
It was late the following morning before Donaldson had a chance to drop into Flaherty's office for the answer to some questions. The first one was, "Sir? How did you know it wasn't just an ordinary robbery that went haywire?"
"That was pretty obvious from the beginning, Donaldson. No holdup man wants to kill. In fact, he'll do a lot to avoid killing. This one just walked in, killed immediately, then went through the motions of taking money to make it look like a burglary."
Donald looked dubious.
"There was more to it than that, of course. What kind of a car do holdup artists usually drive?"
The answer was immediate. "A stolen one!"
"Exactly. So if this automobile had been stolen, there would have been no need to put mud on the plates. That was a precaution–just in case someone saw the car. So, knowing it wasn't a standard holdup, then I had to look for another motive. Money was out, for obvious reasons. By the way, has Kilpatrick confessed yet?"
"No. And he doesn't have to. We found the gun, with two shots fired, a ski mask, and a handful of twenties under the driver's seat of his car, along with traces of mud on the plates, and powder residue on his hands. Besides, he has a record. Assault on his wife, for one thing. And a couple of aggravated assaults in the past he served time for. He has a reputation for having a bad temper, and of being jealous as all hell of his wife. His lawyer didn't seem too pleased when he saw all the evidence."
"How long were we out at the store? Do you remember?"
"I sure do, sir. It was a lot less than an hour."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was frequently amazed at some of the things Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty said and did, and today he was even more astonished than usual. When he called the Lieutenant to tell him about the spectacular car-bombing at the Parkway Garage where he had roped off the site, he couldn't believe that Flaherty showed no interest in joining him.
As though catching a hint of Donaldson's surprise over the phone, the Lieutenant asked, rhetorically, "Why should I go there? The bomb squad's on the way. That's their area of expertise. Not much that I could find out that they can't. Now, who got blown away, that's where I need to begin."
Donaldson shook his head at the cell phone and went on to humor the Lieutenant. "Name's Samuel Lemke, sir. He's got an office just across the street from the garage. Brantley and Lemke. I'm not sure what their business is, but Officer Getz is over there right now, trying to quiet down the secretary who's pretty hysterical, from what Getz says. Car belonged to Brantley, by the way." Only then did the thought strike Donaldson that Flaherty was already looking to find out who Brantley's enemies were. The resulting headshake was at himself for not recognizing that that was what was important.
"OK, Sergeant. I'll see you at Brantley and Lemke's in a few minutes."
As it turned out, the two officers arrived almost simultaneously at the elevator. "From what Getz said," Donaldson informed the Lieutenant as he punched the button for the fifth floor, "it sounds like she has her hands full. Secretary's a young temp. The explosion rattled their windows over there and rattled her too. I guess Brantley's pretty upset too. It must be just getting home to him that the bomb was in his car."
When Donaldson and Flaherty entered the offices of Brantley and Lemke, the secretary was drinking a glass of water offered her by the uniformed police officer, while Brantley was sitting disconsolately in one of the reception room chairs. Flaherty identified himself and asked if he could speak to him. The two, accompanied by the Sergeant with his note pad at the ready, retired to Brantley's office.
"Terrible, terrible," Brantley kept muttering as he sat behind his desk and the officers settled into two chairs opposite him.
"Please tell us why Mr. Lemke was driving your car," Flaherty began.
"That's the terrible part. Samuel's death is really my fault. I should have been the one driving the car."
"Please explain."
"I was just on the way to pick up my wife at the airport when I got a phone call from Gregory Stanlislaus. He's one of our customers. Has a big warehouse the other side of town. Maybe you've heard of him. Stanlislaus and Sons. Big outfit. Household appliances. Stoves, refrigerators, that sort of thing. He was complaining about a missing shipment we sent out yesterday. He's a good customer, but he demands service. Well, time was running short for me to be at the airport. You know how wives are, they expect you to be on time, even though they may not be." He struggled with a smile.
"Just about then, Samuel came in. He got the drift of the conversation. I covered the mouthpiece while Stanlislaus was going on and on, and explained to Samuel that I'd have to mollify him, and that my wife was waiting at the airport in the meantime. So Samuel volunteered to pick her up. He lives only a couple of blocks away, so he didn't have his car. I gave him the keys. Terrible! It should have been me. Instead, just because he wanted to help, poor Samuel is dead."
"I take it you won't mind if we take a look around Mr. Lemke's office?"
"No. No. Not at all."
Donaldson was again bewildered. Was the Lieutenant going to hunt through Lemke's files to look for a potential murderer when Brantley had been the obvious target? The bewilderment continued as Flaherty simply sat down at Lemke's desk, didn't bother to do any searching but merely asked the Sergeant to bring in the secretary.
Some recovery had occurred since the officers had arrived. The young woman had no difficulty answering the Lieutenant's questions. Yes, she was just a temporary secretary. Mr. Lemke arrived about eight-thirty while Mr. Brantley was talking to Mr. Stanlislaus. Mr. Lemke volunteered to pick up Mrs. Brantley at the airport. The entire interrogation took only a few moments. After the secretary went back to the outer office, Donaldson sat back, waiting for Flaherty's next move.
The Lieutenant, looking perplexed, said, "Give the bomb squad a call and see if they have any idea what kind of device set off the bomb."
While Donaldson was talking to the Sergeant in charge of the squad, he watched Flaherty briefly examining some Brantley and Lemke stationery on the desk, placing a call on his own cell phone, and then apparently aborting the call.
"Preliminary guess is that it was a simple attachment to the ignition." Donaldson announced. "Timmons says anyone could rig it up with about fifteen minutes reading in the library, or just a few minutes on the right internet site."
Flaherty smiled. "In other words, it wouldn't have had to be a professional job."
"That's right, sir."
"OK. Let's go out to the front office. Get Brantley out there along with the secretary and let's see if we can figure out exactly what happened."
A barely visible headshake of doubt greeted the order, but Donaldson quickly rounded up the requested individuals.
Flaherty's first words were, "I'd like to reenact what happened when Lemke arrived at the office this morning. Could you folks show me where you were when he came in. Let's see, it was right around eight-thirty, is that correct?"
Brantley nodded hesitantly. The secretary said, "It must have been exactly eight-thirty. When I was here yesterday, Mr. Lemke said he always got here right at that time. He lives–lived–just down the street and used to walk to work."
"Thank you. Now you were sitting at the desk?"
The secretary slipped behind the semi-circular desk and nodded. "Yes, sir. I remember. I was sitting right here, because I'm still having problems with Word Perfect."
"And, Mr. Brantley, where were you?"
"I don't really remember. I guess I may have been in my office."
"Oh, no sir." The secretary broke in. "You had just come out of your office. Don't you remember? You had your overcoat on, and you were about to leave when I stopped you to ask you about the program I was having trouble with."
Flaherty turned to her. "And then the phone rang, and you answered it?"
The secretary frowned. "I'm not sure. I think I..."
At that moment the phone rang and she began to reach for it. "Oh," she said, "No, I didn't." Interrupting herself, she lifted the receiver, then looked puzzled. "No one there. Just a dial tone."
"What were you saying just now, when the phone rang?"
"That's what made me remember. I didn't answer the phone. I was busy on the computer, so Mr. Brantley reached over and answered the phone for me. He started to talk to Mr. Stanlislaus, and Mr. Lemke came in at just about that moment."
Brantley's face was white as Flaherty turned to him. "You can give me your cell phone, Mr. Brantley. I would guess that the last call you made on it was to this office phone. I suppose it was in your overcoat pocket and you pressed the memory button for this number while you were standing here, the way I did a minute ago with my phone. I doubt very much that there was any rush to pick up Mrs. Brantley at the airport, and I can guess who profits from Lemke's death. As for the Stanlislaus shipment, I'd be willing to bet it isn't missing–providing of course that there actually was a shipment in the first place."
Brantley sputtered, though his intention had been to say nothing. "You're just speculating. You have absolutely nothing to go on. Everything I told you is absolutely true."
"Thank you. I was hoping you'd say that. Evidently you didn't catch the news. There was a fire at the Stanlislaus warehouse early this morning. Mr. Stanlislaus was badly burnt. He was in no condition to call anyone, and certainly would not have been the least concerned about a missing shipment."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson would have been only too pleased if "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty had been with him at the crime scene, but currently the Lieutenant had more pressing concerns. He was probably just recovering from whatever had to be done to him at the hospital for a kidney stone. Even so, he had insisted that Donaldson call him, in the unfortunate eventuality of a homicide. With all the data gathered thus far sitting on the desk in front of him, the Sergeant decided he would at least try to reach Flaherty. The call went through; a familiar but somewhat tired voice answered.
"Sorry to bother you, sir, but there's been a murder in the Hawthorne district."
"No bother. The worst is over. I didn't even need an anesthetic. They dunked me in a tub of water and bombarded me with ultrasound. X-rays show they smashed the stone to powder. So I'm just relaxing here after a mild sedative, and I need something interesting to think about. Fire away."
This may be interesting, Donaldson thought, but the Lieutenant won't be able to do much with what we know so far. Even so, he launched off into a recital of the events. "Chelton Harwood. You may know him. Big property owner?"
Donaldson took the answering grunt as an affirmative. "Well, he's not so big anymore, and it looks like one of his tenants did him in. We've interrogated a few, but there are more to go. Harwood had monster-size plans for a piece of land over in Hawthorne–one of those super malls. The problem was a string of houses, all on one road. It turns out they're smack dab in the middle of his proposed project. He made the mistake of leasing them out for five years, and there's still over four years to go. He was able to buy out some of the leases, but a half-dozen–actually seven–of the tenants are hanging tough.
"So Harwood got himself a smart lawyer who found a missing comma, or some such thing, in the leases. It made it possible for him to get a court order to evict the remaining tenants, and that's what he was doing this morning–personally serving each of them with the necessary papers. According to his secretary, he was planning on going out early this morning so he'd be sure to catch the tenants before they went off to work. From what I can make out, he was really gloating over the prospect of getting rid of the troublemakers.
"So, it looks as though someone objected, because the paper boy found Harwood's body in one of the driveways. He was sitting in his car, with most of his head missing. What was left of it was pressing down on the horn ring in his old Chrysler, and the noise is what got the boy to check the car. The poor kid will be having bad dreams for a long time to come.
"The gun was on Harwood's lap. Powder burns on his shoulder, but none on his hands, so suicide is out. Killer must have leaned through the window, shot him, then dropped the gun. It's a Sig Sauer .45-caliber. Unregistered. We've got a tracer out on it, but that doesn't look too hopeful. The first person we interviewed was the occupant of the house. He's one Harwood was trying to evict. His name is Elias Thomas.
"Did he explain why he didn't hear the sound of the horn?"
"He didn't have to explain, Lieutenant. He's been stone deaf since birth. Can read lips fairly well, and is able to talk, though he isn't easy to understand. He denies knowing anything about the murder, except that Harwood had just served him and left. Thomas was madder'n hell and not afraid to say so. He says the world's a better place without bloodsucker Harwood, as he called him.
"Lowell and Norrine Whistleby live next door, to the north. They were also served with papers this morning, and they're even madder than Thomas. They heard the shot and the sound of the horn, but they were too busy calling their lawyer to be much concerned about noise in the neighborhood.
"House to the south is vacant. Next one is also. The one after that is occupied by a Mrs. Sophie Cartucci. She's a widow. Lives alone. Harwood served her earlier. She says she'd already made plans to move in with her daughter the other side of town, so the eviction notice didn't bother her. She didn't much care for Harwood, but she didn't blow her cork the way the other tenants did. She also heard the shot. Thought it was just a car backfiring. Since she was packing stuff up in the attic, she didn't hear the horn. Makes sense, since her house is quite a ways from Thomas's driveway.
"Harwood must have already served all seven of the tenants with the papers he picked up in court, since there weren't any in his car. We've got the names of the other four and will be interrogating them as soon as possible. They're all at work right now, so we're running them down there."
"No, need, Sergeant. Just arrest Thomas and charge him with the murder. Get a warrant to search his house. You'll very likely find some clothes of his with a powder residue on it. Check his hands, of course, though he probably thought to wear gloves."
"But, sir."
"Not much question about it, Donaldson. Unless you have another deaf person among the tenants, which seems very unlikely, then Thomas is the only one who wouldn't have realized the horn was blaring away. Put yourself in the place of one of those other tenants, or of anyone else for that matter. If you had shot Harwood, you would have been only too eager to get away from the murder scene. Would you have left the body leaning on the horn, blasting away while you tried to sneak off?
"No! Anyone with normal hearing would have pushed Harwood off that horn ring to put an immediate stop to the noise, since they would have had to leave the premises somehow without being detected immediately after the murder. A loud, continuously blaring horn wouldn't have been very helpful to anyone trying to escape undetected. The only possible explanation is that the killer didn't know it was making a noise.
"Oh, yes. Take Officer Getz along with you. She knows sign language. It wouldn't hurt to be absolutely sure Thomas knows his rights before you bring him in.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson could feel his stomach rumbling. That was a sure sign lunchtime was approaching and, at the moment, so was Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty.
Donaldson knew the Lieutenant was getting restless, since there hadn't been a homicide to investigate for over a week, and Flaherty had been on vacation the two weeks previously. The thought that the Lieutenant would engage him in small talk and delay the appointment he had with the Flame Diner's monster submarine sandwich drove Donaldson to engage in a bit of subterfuge.
Reaching for a file folder on his desk, he rose to greet his superior. "Lieutenant! I was wondering if we couldn't go to lunch and talk over this case I had while you were away. There are a couple of points I thought you could clear up for me." The ruse worked. Short of being on the scene itself, Flaherty liked nothing more than analyzing a case, and this was one that had already been solved in not much more than the fifty minutes the Lieutenant was famous for.
As Flaherty leafed through the file while working through his BLT sandwich, Donaldson sighed and sank his teeth into the crusty roll enveloping a half dozen varieties of cold cuts and cheeses. But the joys of eating didn't prevent him from admiring the rapidity with which Flaherty digested the contents of the file. His quick grasp of the gist of the case was admirable.
"Two brothers, partners in a wool warehouse business, lived together on Fairfield and Third. Milford, the elder, was found dead last Thursday around nine-thirty when Folsom came home from the office where he'd been working late. According to the pathologist's report, death was due to repeated blows from a heavy metal object. A pair of fireplace tongs found at the scene was the obvious weapon. A couple of Milford's watches, a tie clasp, his wallet and some other minor items were missing. A neighbor reported seeing an African-American male, about five-ten, slender, wearing a plaid jacket, entering the house around nine. When given the description, Folsom identified a disgruntled employee, Tilden Short, who always wears a plaid jacket. Milford had fired him the previous week because he'd caught him stealing from the warehouse. A warrant to search the suspect's house produced the tie clasp and one of the watches. He was charged, read his rights, and held for arraignment. Is that substantially correct?"
Donaldson swallowed, drew in a breath while doing so, choked, cleared his throat and managed to nod.
"You checked the neighbor's vantage point?"
It took Donaldson a moment to decipher the question. "Sure, sure. She's a Mrs. Kosky, a widow in her seventies, but sharp as a tack. Likes to sit in her window across the street from the Parkers to watch what's going on. Seems like there's one like that in every neighborhood, and we lucked out with her. Her eyesight's perfect. Better than mine, and without glasses. We checked her out the following night. She could damn near read the badge on the patrolman we had stand under the street light in front of the Parker house. She wouldn't have been able to pull Short out of a line-up, of course, because she didn't get a look at his face, but the rest of her description tallied nicely. And she knew the time for sure, because she says it was just before she turned on the TV for the nine-o'clock news."
"So what does Short say?"
Donaldson was careful this time to avoid answering while crunching down on the last remnants of the sandwich. Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he finally said, "You'll never believe the garbage he's trying to palm off. The public defender just rolled his eyes and shook his head. Short claims he received a package in his mailbox that afternoon. It had the wrong address on it, but he opened it anyway. In it were the watches, a tie clasp, a silver pen and an old gold ring. He says he traded off and sold everything but the clasp and one of the watches that afternoon. And, naturally, he claims he was nowhere near the Parker house at nine."
"So where does he say he was?"
Pushing around the last few flakes of bread crust left on his plate, Donaldson laughed. "This, you really won't believe. He claims he got a call from someone who heard he had some hot items to sell, and whoever it was wanted to meet him outside a bar in Cooperstown. So he went sailing out there, hung around for about a half-hour and nobody showed. Some alibi! Nobody to vouch for him except an anonymous caller."
The Lieutenant rose abruptly, "I want to talk to Short," he announced.
The lanky, dark-skinned prisoner in an orange jump suit didn't look especially happy to see the two officers, but agreed to talk to them even without his lawyer being present.
Before asking anything, Flaherty frowned and turned to Donaldson. "Find out who owns the house Mrs. Kosky lives in while I talk to this man."
Donaldson suppressed a burp, now certain he'd eaten too fast and ready to detour by his desk for an antacid tablet. As he left the interrogation room, Flaherty asked Short, "When you were arrested, you weren't wearing your usual plaid jacket. Where is it?
Short broke into a loud laugh. "Hey, man, if you don't know where it is, then I sure can't tell you. The cops shook me down on a drug bust three days before this bum rap. Couldn't find anything on me, but they took the jacket. Said they were going to vacuum it for drug traces. What did they do, lose it?"
At that moment Donaldson returned with the information that the Parker brothers were the owners of Mrs. Kosky's house. Flaherty rose and said, "And I would guess she's been recently given free rent. Get a warrant for Milford Parker's arrest for murder. You might also look around his house for Folsom's wallet, since Milford didn't put that in Short's mailbox."
In spite of the antacid, Donaldson felt another rush of heartburn and swore to himself never again to take less than an hour for lunch.
Detective Sergeant Donaldson could see no good reason why he should be at that day's Police Commission meeting, even after Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty explained in some detail the need for his attendance. Donaldson had protested, "But, Sir, the Police Commission is just an advisory group appointed by the Mayor. What difference does it make what they decide?"
"Ah, Sergeant, the answer to that is politics. The Chairman of the Commission owns one of the largest security agencies in the state and contributes heavily to the Mayor's campaign. Under such circumstances, advice can be virtually a command. In any event, this meeting will be taking up the matter of the police department budget, so the Chief and the Assistant Chief for Operations will be there. There may be some questions about the Homicide Division, and it would be helpful if you were along should some nitty-gritty questions about your bailiwick come up.
"Since the vote on the budget is scheduled to come up before six, you'll be able to make it home to dinner. This will be one time your wife won't have to keep your meal warm while you're out on a case."
The meeting was at Harrison School which, unfortunately, was in the midst of remodeling and expansion. The Sergeant and the Lieutenant parked next to the Chief's car and managed to work their way from the lot, around stacks of concrete blocks, rebar, lumber and other odds and ends of building materials, to the conference room reserved for the session.
As a matter of fact, Donaldson was somewhat curious about the Commission, since he had never gone to any of the meetings and knew none of the Commissioners. Fortunately, he arrived early and sat next to Assistant Chief Roberts, who seemed only too eager to fill him in on the various failings of the Commissioners, whose nameplates sat on the table in front of the still-empty chairs.
"The first one on the left, Wanda Claypole, is Big Mouth. She'll do all the talking, and she specializes in micromanaging. She's the Chairman's 'significant other.' Has been for years, and as far as I can see, she wears the pants in the family." Roberts's eyes rolled skyward. "She's absolutely unbelievable. In case you're wondering why they aren't married, that's because state law prevents a husband and wife from serving on the same commission."
A chuckle followed the last statement. "A new law that's going into effect next month applies the same rules to domestic partnerships, so we'll get rid of at least one of them."
"The next one is Darby Winding, himself. You'll see why they call him Fat Boy. You can guarantee the meeting will end, or at least recess, at the dot of six so he can get off to the food trough. Between Big Mouth and his appetite, he's not long for this world. His blood pressure must be off the charts.
"The third is Jayne Marlowe–the Mouse. I haven't heard her say a word in all the meetings I've attended except to second motions made by Big Mouth. She did try to get a word in sledgewise once or twice, but Big Mouth squashed her like a bug. Actually, I think Mouse might be reasonable if she weren't overwhelmed all the time."
"The fourth one, Sebastian Cassini–Smiley–isn't on the Commission. He's a city attorney assigned to provide legal counsel to the Commissioners. He's all teeth, generally doesn't know what's going on, cares less, and smiles most of the time–when he isn't sleeping. Sometimes he manages to do both at the same time. Big Mouth never asks him for an opinion without making it clear what his opinion is supposed to be. If he still doesn't take the hint to tell it like she wants it, she as much as informs him he doesn't know what he's talking about and plows right on."
A wry snicker followed as Roberts was obviously reliving some such scenes. "Smiley never seems bothered, though," he continued. "He just sits back, smiles and dozes off."
Roberts was moving on to some of the juicier details of the Commissioners' backgrounds when Fat Boy lumbered in, preceded by Big Mouth and followed by Mouse and Smiley. Within moments the three Commissioners had fully lived up to the names Roberts had assigned to them. Fat Boy, wedged into his chair, brought the meeting to order and called for a reading of the minutes of the previous meeting. Big Mouth moved that the reading be dispensed with and that the minutes be approved as written. Mouse seconded the motion in an almost imperceptible voice. Smiley smiled.
The major combatant immediately moved into the arena. "I have a question for Assistant Chief Roberts," Big Mouth began, as she riffled through the pages in front of her. "Why in the world does the Police Department need three cases of fingerprint ink? I can't imagine the entire FBI uses that much in a year. I didn't realize there were that many criminals in the city. Certainly we don't seem to apprehend that many."
Donaldson could see a pulse in Roberts's forehead when he replied, "We fingerprint a good many people other than criminals. Anyone applying for a driver's license or gun license has to be fingerprinted. And, as Sergeant Donaldson here can tell you, in criminal cases anyone who left prints at the scene may have to be fingerprinted."
"And what about this powder? Do female officers have shiny noses, or perhaps it's male officers who make use of it."
A furious Roberts turned the question over to Donaldson, who began to explain the need for a great deal of fingerprint powder at a homicide scene. He was quickly interrupted by Big Mouth, however, as she ignored him and went on to challenge further items in the proposed budget.
The questions were generally interspersed with reminiscences of the extensive management experience she had had in the past, of the inadequacies of subordinates she had supervised–and was currently supervising. She also noted other matters indicating her expertise in various aspects of administration, including what she considered to be her specialty–interpersonal relations.
Donaldson amused himself by observing the expressions of those present during the extensive monologue. Fat Boy was simply vegetating. Mouse had shrunk further and further into herself. She had donned her oversize reading glasses and was either busying herself with items further along on the agenda or reading a paperback. Smiley smiled, sometimes with his eyes open, sometimes with them closed. The Chief simply had a sour expression on his face. Roberts's vein was pulsing at an even faster pace than before. Flaherty, on the other hand, was evidently reeling in a muskie on some remote Canadian lake, since his face was in complete repose.
The afternoon wore on as Big Mouth worked her way painfully through item after item, ranging from paper clips to tear-gas canisters, when suddenly Fat Boy sat up. Six o'clock had arrived! Taking advantage of a momentary pause in the prolonged audit, he announced that the meeting would adjourn until seven-thirty, when a vote on the budget would be in order.
Roberts was the first to leave, followed closely by the Chief. Big Mouth leaned over, whispered something into Fat Boy's ear, then marched out of the room. Fat Boy announced, "You folks go ahead. I'll lock up after you, so it'll be safe to leave your things here." At that, Mouse carefully aligned the edges of papers in front of her, placed her reading glasses on top of the stack, and then scuttled off with Smiley in her wake.
Donaldson and Flaherty rose and left, the former commenting on how dark it had gotten and on the lack of adequate lighting in the deserted school grounds, which made it even more difficult than earlier to navigate the path through the building materials to the parking lot.
"Sorry I gave you such bad information, Sergeant, but the Commission did have the budget vote scheduled for five-thirty. Since we'll have to be back here at seven-thirty, the least I can do is treat you to supper. Why don't you give your wife a call and let her know you'll be eating out?"
Flaherty added, when they'd finally made it out past the Chief's car to their own, "As soon as I have a word with Roberts and the Chief we'll take off. Maybe they'll want to come along."
A light drizzle had set in, so the two were sitting in the car waiting for their colleagues, when a small figure–obviously Mouse's–scurried over to a car at the other end of the lot and climbed into the driver's seat. With a squeal of tires, it took off almost immediately. Moments after, Smiley came by, his teeth flashing in the light of a street lamp. He waved, went off to his car and drove slowly away.
The two officers continued to wait for their colleagues, who evidently had made use of the men's room after the meeting. The first to arrive was the Chief. "Where's Roberts?" Flaherty asked.
The Chief leaned over, looked into the passenger window and grinned. "He came in while I was in the can, looking green. I think he's still in there."
At that moment, an unsteady Roberts came out of the darkness. Shortly afterwards, the bulky figure of the Chairman loomed up from behind a huge pile of plastic-covered wallboard. He lumbered over to the policemen who were now clustered together and asked, "Have any of you seen Wanda?"
"She probably went to the ladies room," Roberts observed.
"I looked over that way. Saw Jayne leaving, but no sign of Wanda."
It was Flaherty's suggestion that they all go back to see if she might have stumbled in the midst of all the building detritus strewn across the grounds. With a police flashlight as added illumination, the five men worked their way back to the administration building. Approaching the ladies room in a poorly lit section, Flaherty led the way, knocked on the door, then entered. He didn't need his flashlight to find the body stretched out on the tile floor by the washbasin. A bloody piece of rebar was beside her. The back of her head showed signs of repeated and savage blows.
It was Roberts who said, "Someone must have snuck into the grounds and killed her. Did they take her purse?"
Donaldson immediately broke in. "She didn't have a purse, and it wasn't any stranger. Look!" As he spoke, he pointed to an object partly hidden under one of the victim's outstretched hands. It was a pair of large glasses, unmistakably the ones worn by the Mouse, Jayne Marlowe.
"Good for you, Donaldson," Flaherty exclaimed. "Now, arrest Mr. Winding and read him his rights."
***
It was a late supper for Donaldson and Flaherty, since crime-scene personnel had been called in, and the investigation had been long and thorough, with much use of fingerprint powder. Donaldson was happy enough to tuck into the New York steak and baked potato with sour cream, so he didn't really mind waiting until the after-dinner coffee for the full story of how Flaherty had known Dunbar Winding was the killer.
"It was the glasses, without question, Donaldson. You see, Marlowe used them only for reading. Surely, you saw her put them on for that purpose. Before she left, she set them down on the table on top of her papers, right within easy reach of Winding. And then you must remember how careful he was to see that we went out of the room before he did. As soon as we turned to leave, he slipped them into his pocket. All in all, this was a marvelous opportunity for him to get rid of someone he now admits he roundly hated and could no longer use to dominate the commission. The glasses were a handy means to cast suspicion on someone else.
"There was also a bonus to doing away with her here today, since it undoubtedly provided him with a considerable measure of satisfaction to be able to kill her virtually in the presence of police officers."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson couldn't believe his eyes. Here it was five minutes to midnight and sauntering down the police station corridor, humming to himself, was Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty. Seeing Donaldson's puzzled look, the Lieutenant explained, "I had to catch up on my paperwork sooner or later–and I have. The inbox is empty. I even signed all the requisitions for new equipment–in triplicate. But what brings you here this time of night?"
"Sergeant Lilliwhite's down with the flu, Sir. I'm filling in for him. His wife called me because he was too sick to even talk over the phone. Bad flu and cold season this year. Good thing it's been so quiet around here lately. We wouldn't have the manpower to cover anything serious."
"Well, let's take advantage of the quiet night and go have some decent coffee over at Sadie's. Maybe tomorrow's donuts have been delivered already."
The Desk Sergeant must have heard the comment about a quiet night since he grinned as they started to stroll by, tore a sheet off the printer and handed it to Donaldson. "Just got plugged into nine-one-one. Woman killed her husband. Patrol car should be there already. She had a restraining order on him, and he tried to break into her house. Here's the address and some of the details."
Donaldson took the paper and was skimming through it as the Desk Sergeant went on. "It was her mother who called it in. I sure couldn't make heads or tails from what the old lady was saying–something about a dead man. Then the wife took over. She's got laryngitis. Could barely talk. I checked her story, by the way, and pulled up the court order." He gestured toward the computer screen. "She got it about a month ago. He was out on bail after beating her up and threatening to kill her."
The Lieutenant started toward the door. "Let's go."
Before joining him, Donaldson caught the look on the Desk Sergeant's face. He knew what he was thinking. This was one homicide the Lieutenant wouldn't need his famous fifty minutes to solve. The killer was already identified.
It was a middle-class house set in peaceful middle-class surroundings. The neighbors were either still asleep or were exercising remarkable nonchalance at the presence of one police car in the driveway of the house and another pulling up to the curb in front. Even the sound of gunfire had apparently left the serene atmosphere of the neighborhood undisturbed.
The porch light was on, the door was open, and a body was lying just inside. The patrolman standing on the porch greeted the newcomers with a series of laconic statements. "He's dead. No question about it. Gun's on the floor just a few feet inside. Corelli has the women in the kitchen. She's probably brewing coffee for them. The wife's about out of it, and her mother's probably out of it most of the time. Crew's on the way. Should be here in a matter of minutes."
Donaldson and Flaherty stepped carefully around the body, which was face down in the small hallway. The Lieutenant barely looked at it as he headed toward the kitchen, where the scene greeting him was an oddly domestic one. Three women were sitting around the table holding coffee cups. The one in an officer's uniform started to rise, but Flaherty waved her back to her seat. The older woman, fully dressed and sitting in a wheelchair, was smiling absently at the newcomers and sipping carefully at the hot coffee. The third woman, wearing a bathrobe, clutched her cup with both hands as though trying to warm them. Her eyes were puffed and her face was flushed with fever.
Officer Corelli was the first one to speak. Addressing the Lieutenant, she said, "I haven't asked any questions except for names, sir. This is Mrs. Jo Anne Wallace," she nodded toward the younger woman, "and her mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Cotter. Lieutenant Flaherty and Sergeant Donaldson." She paused. "The man in the hallway is Lewin Wallace. Mrs. Wallace's husband."
Flaherty turned to Jo Anne Wallace. "Could you tell me what happened?"
It was obvious the effort to talk was causing pain, and the voice, little more than a hoarse whisper, was difficult to understand. "I heard a noise on the porch, so I got out of bed to look out the window. Then I heard knocking on the front door. I just knew it was Wally. I couldn't speak loud enough to warn him off, so I went to the hall desk and took out the gun. I got it a month ago. I never expected he'd suddenly open the door. I had the locks changed, and he couldn't have had a key, but I must have forgotten to lock it. He slammed it open and came at me, so I shot him"
In a firm voice, Mrs. Cotter broke in. "The court says Wally can't come here anymore. He's afraid of the court."
"Yes, Mother," Jo Anne interrupted, "he won't bother us anymore."
Flaherty indicated for Donaldson to come with him as he said, "You folks finish your coffee. We should be through here very shortly."
"I'm going to hate to run Mrs. Wallace in," Donaldson said, once they were back in the living room. "It sounds like that husband of hers got exactly what he deserved."
Flaherty ignored the comment and turned to the scene-of-crime personnel who had arrived a few moments before. Addressing one of the crew standing by the phone, Flaherty asked, "Does it have a redial?"
An answering nod. "Yes, sir. It's one of those fancy ones. You can redial any of the last ten numbers."
Donaldson followed the Lieutenant over to the phone and watched as the technician pressed the redial button. The sound of a phone ringing then a voice came through. "Nine-one-one. Emergency Services."
Flaherty nodded, then said, "Try the next one back."
The redial brought up a different voice. "You've reached the residence of Lewin Wallace. I can't come to the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone."
The Sergeant shook his head in surprise and exclaimed, "She set him up!"
"No question about it, Donaldson. She called him, told him all was forgiven, unlocked the door, then sat and waited for him. The minute he opened the door, she shot him. Put in a call for the van."
"Sir? What do we need the van for?"
"For the chair lift. How else are we going to get Mrs. Cotter to the station?"
"But the wife is the one who killed Wallace."
"Sergeant! You've been around long enough to know you can't always trust confessions. She's just trying to protect her mother. Now we know someone called Wallace. Jo Anne Wallace can barely speak, so it doesn't seem it could have been her who called him. Not only that, she's obviously very sick with the flu. She's barely functioning and is hardly up to planning to kill anyone.
"Besides; can you picture someone who's in fear of their life leaving the door unlocked? And then thinking we'd believe that she'd done so, especially after going to all the trouble of having the locks changed? But the clincher is the clothes. Why would her mother have been fully dressed at midnight, unless she was expecting a visitor?"
Flaherty nodded to himself. "Powder residue on her hand will make her daughter's confession meaningless. What time is it, by the way?"
Detective Sergeant Donaldson wasn't sure what to do next. He'd arrived at the scene of the crime moments after the patrol car, had immediately tried to contact Lieutenant Flaherty at the station on his cell phone and even on his beeper, but hadn't been able to locate him. So for the next few hours the Sergeant had been on his own, directing the scene-of-crime personnel, waving the gawkers along, keeping the suspects corralled, and just generally following the book–word for word. With a considerable measure of relief he saw the body finally loaded and sent off to the morgue.
Just as he was about to go back into the bookstore for in-depth questioning of the four people who had been present when the victim was murdered, "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty's red BMW pulled up to the curb, and the Lieutenant–impeccably dressed, as usual– stepped out and gave Donaldson a casual wave. The Sergeant didn't waste time on preliminaries, but instantly launched off into a description of the homicide, knowing that Flaherty preferred a complete briefing as soon as possible. And Donaldson took no small pride in his contributions to the Lieutenant's reputation for solving homicides in less than an hour.
With a nod toward the large warehouse serving as a bookstore, Donaldson began, "A customer was found sitting in the basement can. Someone clobbered him with a hammer, just minutes before the body was discovered–according to the deputy coroner. There was another customer in the store, along with the three Hansen brothers. It had to be one of those four who did it, because there's no other entrance to the basement and the only way into the store other than there," he indicated the front door with his thumb, "is the loading platform. There's a big door that can be opened only with a chain and pulley. Shakes the building when anyone does it, and everyone's agreed it wasn't opened at any time this morning. The only other door back there is locked and has crates of books piled up against it."
"Who found the body?"
"The other customer." The Sergeant flipped through his notes. "Leroy Willis. According to his driver's license, the deceased is Peter Moncton. No record on either of them, but Station's continuing to check. No record on the brothers, either. "
Looking up at the sign over the entrance that read, "Hansen's Rare Books," Flaherty commented, "So the Hansens are the owners."
Again, Donaldson went back through his notes. "Leif Hansen is the owner. Thorwald Hansen is an author. He was having a signing here today." The Sergeant looked at Flaherty and, seeing no indication that the Lieutenant knew any more than he had about such events until this morning, he added, "Thorwald just had a book published, and he goes from one bookstore to another signing copies for anyone who buys one of his books. The third brother, Eric, is Thorwald's agent. This was supposed to be a big event, but from what I can make out, they weren't being overwhelmed with customers."
"OK, Sergeant. Let's go take a look at where it happened."
The two of them wended their way through a welter of bookshelves, piles of books, books in boxes, books strewn across the floor. The chaos was relieved only slightly by a glass-enclosed office at one end of the building where four disgruntled-looking suspects were sitting while under the watchful eye of a police officer. Flaherty ignored them as he followed Donaldson down into the basement. At the foot of the stairs, the Sergeant pointed to an open door at the end of a narrow passageway crammed with books, bookshelves, pieces of crates and various other debris.
The bookstore's restroom was nothing more than a closet-sized space with a low false ceiling and barely room for a toilet and a small washbasin. The toilet tank was the old fashioned overhead variety activated by a pull chain. Flaherty inspected the area, commenting, "Kind of cramped quarters."
Donaldson nodded. "Medics were in a hurry to get him out. Claimed if they didn't do it before rigor set in they'd have had a hell of a time getting him out through the doorway."
The Lieutenant held out a hand to Donaldson. "Polaroids?"
"Yes, sir." The Sergeant reached into a manila envelope he had been carrying and handed over a dozen or so postcard-sized photos.
"He doesn't have his pants down." Flaherty's tone sounded almost accusing.
"Yes, sir. I noticed that. He was just sitting on the can with the lid down. Damned if I know what he was doing."
Flaherty lingered over the close-up of a large framing hammer lying on the floor of the tiny room. Donaldson answered the unasked question. "There's no doubt but that that's the murder weapon. One helluva blow to the top of the head. Deputy Coroner says death was instantaneous from that one blow. Right on top of the head while he was sitting there. Really crushed his skull." He paused before adding, "No prints. The hammer was wiped clean."
The Lieutenant handed back the photos, saying, "OK. Bring them down, one at a time. I might as well start with the store owner."
Leif Hansen was a blond giant of a man. Well over six feet and carrying more than his share of fat on his heavy frame, the storeowner seemed relatively undisturbed by the presence of a corpse on his premises, or the locking out of potential customers during the investigation. He readily answered Flaherty's questions.
"Did you know Willis, the dead man?"
"Nope. Never saw him before today. He might have been in the store before, but I sure don't remember him. He came in shortly before noon. Acted kind of funny–nervous like. Maybe he was always that way."
"You were there when the body was found?"
"Not exactly. I was just coming down the stairs when the other customer came running toward me saying there was a body in the rest room. I checked, then went over to call nine-one-one." He nodded in the direction of a wall phone nearby. "The police showed up within minutes."
"Did you notice anyone going downstairs during the day?"
"I was at the front desk all morning, so I can't say for sure. There weren't many customers in–we really don't depend much on foot traffic, by the way. Our business is mainly mail order. Anyhow, most of the ones we did get had left by around noon, so I took time out to go to the bathroom."
"One last question. Do you recognize the hammer?"
"Oh, definitely. We use it for wooden crating. Most of our shipments are sent out and arrive in cardboard containers, but we still get occasional wooden packaging, especially from overseas. The hammer was probably sitting on a shelf near the toilet door where we did some uncrating lately."
There was little doubt that Leif and Eric Hansen were brothers. Blonde, huge, and with the same ruddy complexion as Leif, Eric was perhaps an inch taller. Unlike his brother, however, there was an element of evasiveness in Eric's answers.
"Did you know the murdered man?"
"Only slightly. He was a writer. Like my brother."
"So you weren't his agent?"
"Not really."
Flaherty raised an eyebrow at the answer. Eric shifted from one foot to the other before saying, "Perhaps you should talk to Thorwald about that. He knew him much better than I did."
Further questions elicited much the same responses as those from Leif. During the period that the few customers had drifted in Eric had spent most of his time with Thorwald. Sometime before noon, those few had left. The murdered man arrived at about that time, seemed to be upset about something and spent a while talking to the author. And, though Eric couldn't be sure, Willis had come in soon afterwards. The first he knew of the murder was when Leif and Willis came up from the basement with the news.
While the third member of the trio was dark haired, otherwise he was clearly a member of the Hansen clan. If anything, he was even heavier set than either of his brothers. His answers to Flaherty's questions explained some of Eric's reticence.
"Yes, I knew Willis. I might as well admit it right off. I've had problems with writer's block for the past few years, and Willis was my ghostwriter. I'd outline the plot and he would take over from there. Naturally, I made a lot of changes. But we had an agreement that he would receive twenty percent of the royalties. That's what he was here about, today."
Flaherty said nothing, waiting for Thorwald to continue.
With an effort, the author did so. "He happened to be a gambler, and from what he told me, he'd gone in over his head. So he wanted an advance to pay off his debt. I told him that there was no way I could give him anything since I'm strapped for cash, myself. This latest book hasn't been selling well, and Eric hasn't even received his commission yet."
"Did he threaten you with exposure–with announcing that he was the real author of the book?"
Thorwald seemed amused at the suggestion. "Hardly. Ghostwriters are common in the book-writing world. And, besides, notoriety of that sort would be as harmful to him as to me. No. There was no suggestion of that on his part."
"So how did he take your refusal to give him any money?"
"He was pretty unhappy. Nervous, too. Kept looking around. Then he took off for the back of the store. It wasn't long after that that I heard he'd been killed."
In physical appearance, Leroy Willis was a sharp contrast to the Hansens. Small, probably a foot shorter than any of the brothers, and without an ounce of excess weight on his wiry frame. He was quick to explain how he'd stumbled on his gruesome discovery.
"I came in to kinda look around, you know, for something to read. Then I had to go to the can. I figured there was one down in the basement. Sure enough, when I went down the stairs, I spotted it. I opened the door and there he was–head smashed in and all with that big hammer by his side on the floor. I turned and headed for the stairs to tell them what I'd found. Just then the owner started down. I told him about it, and he called nine-one-one."
It wasn't until after Donaldson had supervised Willis's loading into the patrol car, less than forty-five minutes after Flaherty's arrival, that he took time out to ask the Lieutenant how he knew that Willis was the murderer.
"Several minor items and one major one. For one thing, we know that Moncton was nervous and acting as though someone were following him. That he was hiding in the toilet seems very clear, since he wasn't using it for its usual purposes. He must have spotted Willis and thought he could wait in the basement until he left. Obviously, it wouldn't have been any of the three brothers that he was afraid of."
"But why was he afraid of Willis?"
"I would guess that Willis was the one he owed money to. Killing Moncton was probably a spur-of-the-moment, angry response to his not having the money. The hammer happened to be handy, was intended as a threat, and then became the murder weapon. Another item is the fact that Willis didn't exactly strike me as being a book lover. The Hansens were in agreement that he'd probably never been in the store before, so it's rather remarkable that he would suddenly show up in this rather out-of-the-way shop."
Donaldson didn't think much of the items, but said nothing as Flaherty added his last point.
"The major one was the size of that tiny restroom. None of the Hansens could have swung that hammer in that cramped space, but Willis definitely could have. One blow was all it took and, from the looks of Moncton's skull, it could only have been delivered with all the force of an overhead swing."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson didn't like it one bit. He assumed Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty, who was on his way to the crime scene, was going to like it even less. "Ratsy" Miller was sitting in a straight-back chair facing the door to his apartment, four neat holes–close enough together to be covered by a teacup–smack dab in the middle of his chest. The sightless eyes stared at the Sergeant and Officer Williams while the Deputy Coroner gave the corpse a cursory examination.
"Yup," the DC commented. "Killed right here on the spot. Eight-fifteen this evening would be just about right, give or take fifteen minutes. Isn't eight-thirty when the nine-one-one came in?"
Officer Williams nodded. "The woman in the room below called it in at eight-thirty-four."
"I'm surprised there weren't more calls. Walls are paper thin. Everybody in the apartment must have heard the shots."
A look of amusement crossed Williams's dark face as he explained. "In this place, people mind their own business. If the shots don't come through the walls or the ceiling, then they ignore them. The only reason the woman downstairs called is because she was afraid that was just what was about to happen. She's got a couple of kids and that's what worried her. She says it sounded like shotgun blasts."
The DC snorted. "Couldn't have been that loud. Twenty-two, it looks like."
"Like you said. The walls are paper thin. There were plenty who did hear the shots. We've asked around, and they verify the time. But it's one thing to admit you heard shots, it's another to report it to the police."
Donaldson, who had been about to comment, turned to see Flaherty entering. "Sorry I couldn't get here sooner, Sergeant. It was a dinner–at the Chief's–so I couldn't exactly just get up and leave. Any ideas?"
Donaldson looked over at Williams, who nodded, picked up the cue and said, "The victim is a known drug dealer, sir. He was in a local bar this afternoon and got into a fight with another dealer. They had a difference of opinion regarding territory, according to the witnesses. Threats were thrown back and forth, and some bets where even laid on who would get killed first. The other dealer is Clemson Daslie."
"You pick him up?"
Donaldson was the first to reply. "He's at the station being questioned, sir. Cocky as all get out. Says he neither wants nor needs an attorney."
A trace of a smile was Williams's answer as he looked over at Donaldson. The latter wasn't smiling. "He had an alibi, Lieutenant," Williams said. "A cast-iron one. At almost the exact minute that Miller was shot and killed, Daslie was stopped by a patrolman for going through a red light, twenty minutes from here at the intersection of Monroe and Mulberry."
Williams added, "It's a new light, sir. Officer Callahan has been bird-dogging it. Caught a couple-a-dozen the first night it was installed. That's about a month ago. Locals have gotten used to it by now, so he's down to about half-dozen a night. Daslie was his second ticket."
"Couldn't Daslie just have hired someone?"
"Not very likely, Sir. These two are small-timers. Shoestring clerks. They use kids as runners to peddle the dope. Maybe have the kids do some shoplifting, breaking and entering, and the like. But killings are something Daslie couldn't or wouldn't farm out. He'd do that kind of work himself, to cut down on anybody squealing. Since it isn't Daslie, then it must be someone else with his own reason for killing Ratsy. I'm sure there are a lot of others out there with reasons aplenty."
The DC and scene-of-crime crew had long since finished. Flaherty nodded to the impatient attendants who began to bag up the remains while the Lieutenant sauntered through the three-room apartment. There was nothing especially spectacular about the surroundings, though they were a cut above the exterior of the building and it's noisome halls and stairwells. The furnishings, except for a large TV and an audio rack, were somewhat the worse for wear.
The kitchen was reasonably clean. Opening the refrigerator, Flaherty raised an eyebrow at the several cases of Coors stored there and an accompanying absence of food. He moved on back to the front room. Looking at the audio equipment, he turned to Williams while pointing to the CD player. "You wouldn't happen to know how to run one of these things, would you, Williams?"
"If my four-year-old were here, he could do all the bells and whistles, but I'll give it a try. Looks like there's a disc in there already." Punching some buttons produced red lights but no sound. "Maybe I'd better go home and get my kid."
"What are the red numbers?" Flaherty asked.
"Tracks, sir. Different songs on different ones. Let's see. Here it is. We can move on to others, further along on the disc."
"Go to some of the end ones."
A few experimental punches produced nothing, then suddenly!
All three men slapped hands to their ears as four loud booms rattled the windows.
Williams grabbed for the volume knob as Flaherty said, "Call the station. Tell them to hold the suspect. If he doesn't confess, then we'll have to drag the river under the Coolidge Bridge. It's between here and the intersection where Daslie was ticketed. A search should locate a gun and silencer, since that would have been the most obvious place to dump it."
Donaldson's eyes lit up. "Oh. I see. He recorded the disc ahead of time, with the sound of shots about twenty minutes in. Then he showed up here, used a gun with a silencer to kill Miller, put on the CD, turned the machine on and left–knowing almost to the minute when it would come to the track with the shots."
"Exactly. And he already knew about Callahan watching that intersection. He timed it to perfection."
It was Williams who said, "But, sir, that disc is a dead give away. Someone would have stumbled across it sooner or later."
Flaherty smiled. "Any bets that as soon as we leave there'll be a break-in here? Maybe a young runner will take the disc–probably the entire rack for that matter. Daslie figured he had all the bases covered."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson moved into the shelter of the house wall as he watched the scene-of-crime personnel going through their grim routine around the sprawled remains of Terrence Heathersmith. The deputy coroner, having completed his own on-site role, joined Donaldson in the lee of the Heathersmith mansion. Though the wind had died down considerably, it was still whipping two floating plastic chairs up against the opposite side of the oversized swimming pool.
"Fifty-Minutes Flaherty won't have to waste any time on this one," commented the Deputy Coroner as he turned down the collar on his coat now that he was out of the wind.
"The Lieutenant always insists on treating every unexplained death as a homicide until he's sure it's something else. If this is a homicide, he'll have it solved in less than his usual fifty minutes."
The DC looked skeptical. "Seems clear to me. That wild wind this morning tore off a dozen or so of those concrete tiles, and Heathersmith had the bad luck to be standing right there. I'd call it an accident, except that he was a damn fool to come out and stand right at the edge of the roof the way he did. There's no question but that one of those heavy concrete tiles crushed his skull."
At that moment, Flaherty came around the corner of the house, shook hands with the two and inspected the scene from where they were standing. He seemed relatively unconcerned with the body and the activity around it. Instead, his interest centered on the roof. Immediately above them a line of missing tiles marked the path taken by the gust of wind that had ripped through the gully and across the roof. Donaldson checked the time, and made a mental note. It was twelve-ten.
Addressing the Sergeant, the Lieutenant nodded in the direction of the roof damage and asked, "What time did it happen?"
The DC broke in before Donaldson could say anything. "It had to be this morning. Wind came up around daybreak. I live a couple of canyons over, and we felt it over there. I had sense enough to insist on a metal roof when we built. None of that flying tile stuff for me."
"That a wind-measuring device?" Flaherty asked, gesturing toward an antenna-like structure on the roof ridge."
The DC smiled as he said, "It's an anemometer. Most of the homes around here have them. Not that it makes much difference. By the time the wind is really blowing, there's not much you can do about it, whether you know it's seventy knots or ninety."
"How far away is your house?"
"Couple of miles north of here."
"Know the Heathersmiths?"
"Not really. They built and moved in about a year ago. From what I understand, they split the sheets even before the house was finished, and he's the one who moved in. I think I met her once, but I wouldn't know her if I saw her again. Just had a nodding acquaintance with him. Seemed like a nice enough guy. This place is pretty isolated, up at the head of the canyon the way it is. Same with a lot of the fancier homes around here. We don't mingle much."
"You say they get ninety-knot winds up here?"
The DC grinned. "I've seen one flatten a mobile home. And I mean flatten! Must have been a lot more than ninety knots. Lucky we don't have many of those days. This was one of them, and unlucky for Heathersmith."
Flaherty seemed to be mulling over that answer before he asked Donaldson, "Any computer hotshots in the scene-of-crime crew?"
Donaldson couldn't imagine what a computer hotshot could do to solve the problem at hand, but he knew better than to ask. "Yes, sir. Sarah Getz on fingerprints here. You know how she is with computers, sir."
"OK. I understand Mrs. Heathersmith is here this morning. Tell her I'll be there in a few minutes. I want to talk to Officer Getz first."
By the time Flaherty entered the house, Lamerne Heathersmith and Donaldson were seated in comfortable chairs in the large and luxurious living room. Without being asked, the DC joined them and pulled a chair up into the circle. The group fell silent as Flaherty found a place on the long couch, facing the others. After briefly introducing himself, he asked the widow to describe what had happened.
Heathersmith, a shapely dark-haired woman, seemed relatively unaffected by the morning's events. She was sitting quietly with a large shoulder bag on her lap, her hands folded across it. "I drove up around ten this morning. Terry and I had finally decided to get a divorce. It was all amicable, but there were some things we both wanted to work out without benefit of lawyers. We were sitting around talking when the wind came up. Terry was worried about a couple of chairs out by the pool. Was afraid the wind might blow them through one of the glass doors. So he went out to rescue them while I went off to the kitchen to make coffee. That's when I heard this terrible racket. I ran out, and Terry was stretched out by the pool with cement tile all around him. More were falling, so I ran back into the house and called nine-one-one. I'm almost sure he was dead, but I was afraid to get close because of the wind and the tile flying around."
"About what time was that?"
"Ten-thirty, maybe. No later than eleven."
Flaherty glanced over at the DC, who nodded his head.
At that moment, Getz entered the room and handed Flaherty a sheet of paper. Scanning it quickly, he turned to Donaldson. "Charge her and read her her rights."
Caught off guard, the Sergeant hesitated, then pushed himself up from his comfortable chair, stood before the startled woman, and droned off the warning from memory." Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before questioning."
"This is ridiculous," Heathersmith almost shouted.
"Please pass me your purse," Flaherty said, ignoring her comment.
"You can't have it."
"Since you're under arrest, we have to inventory the contents and take possession of them. We'll give you a receipt, of course."
"No!"
Flaherty turned to Getz and motioned toward the shoulder bag. Heathersmith glared at the officer, finally yielded the prize and said, "I want an attorney."
"Your privilege," Flaherty replied, reaching into his pocket. "You can use my cell phone."
While Heathersmith punched the keys, he flipped open the bag. "Interesting," he said, pulling out a small pearl-handled revolver. "Haven't seen one of these in years."
Heathersmith glared as he continued his search and took out a four-page document stapled at the corner. "Also interesting. Divorce papers dated three days ago, so it must have been served on you last night or this morning." He paused, then drew out a single folded sheet of paper. Opening it, he said, "And this is even more interesting. Signed by Terrence Heathersmith and dated today, transferring all rights to a painting to Lamerne Heathersmith. A Brueghel, no less. Must be worth a small fortune. Maybe not so small."
"That was already my painting by right. He agreed it was mine long ago. I'm not saying another word until my attorney arrives."
Flaherty seemed to be talking to himself–just thinking aloud. "Let's see. Mrs. Heathersmith arrives here around ten-thirty after having been suddenly informed that divorce is imminent. She's prepared to threaten to kill Terrence Heathersmith if he doesn't sign the Brueghel over to her. She probably intended to kill him after he signed it."
"I didn't!"
"Even after he signed it, he must have told her it wouldn't hold water because it was a forced agreement. That's when she decided to kill him–in a way that would look like an accident."
"I didn't force him to do anything."
"Then she forces him to go outside. Makes him sit down in one of the plastic poolside chairs. Hmm! No. Let's see. When the wind first came up early this morning, he must have brought in the chairs then and that's when the wind stripped off the tile. So she must have made him carry the chair out. Yes. That makes more sense."
"He took the chairs out himself so we could sit and be comfortable while we were settling the matter of the painting. I never threatened him."
"Now, there wasn't any damaging wind in this area after eight this morning."
"There's no way of knowing that. One of these gullies can have a high wind when the one next over may have none."
The DC interrupted at that point, saying, "She's right Lieutenant. I've seen that happen. There might have been a gust through here anytime."
Heathersmith smirked. Flaherty picked up the paper Getz had handed to him earlier. Still seeming to be thinking aloud, he continued. "Mrs. Heathersmith wasn't aware that her husband installed a wind-measuring device after they had separated. And the obvious way of monitoring the wind was through his computer. This readout shows two one-hundred-knot gusts before six this morning and no wind above thirty knots after eight o'clock. The damaged tile was a godsend. After smashing in her husband's head, she threw the chairs into the pool."
Turning to Getz, who had been hovering in the background, he added, "Check them for fingerprints. Amazing how they can survive a dunking. Now, I know the rough surface of concrete tile won't take prints, but it can leave an impression on anyone who handles it." Finally, turning to Heathersmith, he asked, "Mind showing us your hands?"
Without thinking she stared at her hands and turned them palm up in her lap. Red scratches were visible to all the occupants of the room.
Looking up she said, "It was self defense. He attacked me."
No one except Donaldson moved. And even he just tilted his head slightly to look at his watch. Not quite one o'clock.
THE IMPORTANCE OF KNOWING MOTIVE
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was already thinking about his lunch plans, but Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty was interfering with those thoughts. Both he and his boss had arrived at work early, the lieutenant had completed the morning crossword puzzle especially quickly, and the sergeant had just now told his superior that there were no new homicides to report on.
"If motive isn't obvious in the case of a violent death, then you'd better start looking for it," Flaherty expounded, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head and without commenting on what Donaldson had just said.
Though still concentrating on the condiments he was planning for his noon submarine sandwich, the sergeant had paid enough attention to protest, "But the prosecutor insists motive isn't necessary for conviction."
"Yes, and you should see the expression on his face when he does have a motive to hang a case on, Donaldson. Juries are hard to convince if motive isn't clear. For that matter, I'm also hard to convince when it isn't."
The phone interrupted further exploration of the subject. Donaldson could make out little of the call's substance, but Flaherty's reaction indicated its seriousness. Slamming the receiver back into its cradle, he bounded out of his chair and signaled the sergeant to follow. The explanation wasn't forthcoming until Donaldson was maneuvering a squad car out of the police lot with the lieutenant harnessed in the passenger seat.
"There's been an explosion in the old Medford Building. Sounds like at least one casualty."
The police radio interrupted with a running commentary on the events, as Donaldson ramped up to the freeway, blue light flashing, siren on full. It was evident from the radio reports that several patrol cars were closing in on the scene and that matters were under reasonable control. "And it's a good thing, because we aren't going to be much help" the Sergeant thought, as traffic ground to a halt. Minutes passed. A three-car pileup blocked further progress, until a harassed traffic officer finally managed to clear a path for them through the debris. Even without that impediment, working their way through to the explosion scene in the midst of the morning hour rush was still a slow and painful process. A trip across town that would ordinarily have taken ten to fifteen minutes stretched out to three-quarters of an hour.
Curiosity seekers had been herded well away from the explosion scene by the time they arrived. A tight cordon was in place, and Sergeant Koontz of Precinct Five was already there handling the preliminary investigation. He welcomed his colleagues, and it was obvious he was only too pleased to pass the command responsibility along to Flaherty. As they climbed the stairs to the second floor office where the explosion had occurred, Koontz explained that they weren't using the elevator on the off chance that it might have been damaged by the blast, which had occurred immediately next door to the shaft.
"It really didn't amount to much. Just local damage. One window blown out. But I figured there was no need to take chances. And there was enough explosive to kill the guy who was trying to plant it."
The scene didn't strike Donaldson as one which could be characterized as not amounting to much. A badly mangled and bloody figure lay in front of a file cabinet that had been almost totally destroyed. Shattered glass from a nearby window littered the floor along with what seemed to be reams and reams of paper and hundreds of manila-folder fragments. The twisted remnants of a metal chair had been blown onto a desk that had also taken a good share of the brunt of the explosion.
"It wasn't much more than an oversized grenade," Koontz remarked, waving a hand toward the shattered file cabinet. "Simple gadget. Just a pin that would come out when you open the drawer, and then, 'Poof'"
Flaherty turned a quizzical expression toward the sergeant, who smiled and added, "Don't you remember, Lieutenant? I was in the Navy Seals. Bombs were my specialty. Believe me, this one was something a grade school kid could build from instructions off the Internet. This goof ball must have been trying to put it into the drawer and had it just about in place when somehow he managed to pull the pin in the process."
"It sounds like you have him pegged already."
Koontz grinned, took out a couple of sheets of paper and his Palm Pilot. "I sure do. His wallet had the name and address of his parole officer. He's a smalltime burglar, from Chicago, name of Rex Parade. I contacted the Department there, and got a rundown on him. Downloaded all the info onto the printer in the patrol car." As he spoke he passed the documents over to Flaherty, who rapidly skimmed through them.
Looking up from the papers, Flaherty asked, "How come he was paroled here?"
"The lieutenant I talked to about him gave me the scoop. He says Parade had a long history of B & E. Was an expert in lock picking. So much so that he hired out. Used to burglarize on demand. You know: Art pieces, special collector's items, occasionally important papers. Then he hit a bad one. Owner caught him working on a house safe, and Parade bashed in the owner's head. The lieutenant wasn't happy with telling me what happened next. The police really screwed up. The murder charge had to be dropped on a series of technicalities and because of really bad evidence gathering, so he ended up with only six months for burglary. He just got out a few weeks ago on parole and had a job offer–a legitimate one–here in town, so the Chicago parole bureau arranged for us to take over. Seems like the legitimate job was just a sideline, and Parade went back to his old tricks–except that he branched out unsuccessfully into trying to plant explosives."
"So you figure this was a custom job, too?" As Flaherty asked the question, the three officers moved out in the hall to make room for the crime-scene crew that had just arrived.
"Seems pretty obvious to me, Lieutenant. I can't see where he would have had any reason of his own to plant a bomb here. Someone must have paid him to do the dirty work. The building supervisor gave us the name and phone number of the woman who owns this business. I got in touch with her, and she's on her way out. I don't think she'd appreciate seeing this mess, so I told her I'd meet her out front. She should be able to tell us who would have wanted to do her in and why." At that moment a patrolman came up the stairs to announce the woman's arrival.
Mrs. Loretta Pacek was an intense-looking, fortyish brunette, wearing a smart business suit. Contrary to the sergeant's expectations, she insisted that no one had any reason for wanting to do her harm.
"In fact, I'm not even sure anyone knew I had this office. I just rented it last week and didn't intend to move in until the first of the month. All that was in there were a few old records I'd transferred. Nothing important. I just don't understand what was going on."
"Wrong office, maybe." Sergeant Donaldson mused out loud.
Pacek seemed to accept that possibility. Flaherty evidently didn't, as he went on with the questioning. "The dead man has been identified as Rex Parade. Does that name strike a bell?"
Her hand flew to her mouth. "It most certainly does. He killed my husband. That was a burglary, too, at our house. The police knew he murdered Louis, but Parade was acquitted." She paused, and her forehead wrinkled as she added, "But why would he have followed me here? Why did he want to do this to me?"
The Lieutenant turned to Donaldson. "Sergeant, would you take down Mrs. Pacek's statement? Get a description of the office's contents. Sergeant Koontz and I will contact the Chicago PD and see if we can figure out what motivated Parade to break into Mrs. Pacek's office here.
Donaldson decided he'd probe for the motive in the lieutenant's absence and have it all packaged for him when he came back. As a matter of fact, he already had a fair inkling as to what it might be.
Now seated in the squad car, notebook in hand, he asked his passenger, "Did you testify against Mr. Parade at his trial, Mrs. Pacek?"
She shook her head. "No. There wasn't any need. I wasn't home at the time of the burglary. There was no reason for me to testify."
"Did Parade ever threaten you?"
"No, never. I doubt that he even knew me. I never attended the trial. I couldn't bear to."
The questions continued. Donaldson did his best to hide his exasperation as all connections between Pacek and Parade seemed to evaporate. She had never so much as seen his picture, since there had been very little publicity about the burglary and killing. Certainly, hers had never been in the paper or on TV. She had received no threatening phone calls. There was nothing to indicate he had made any attempts to contact her.
Flaherty's return changed the nature of the questioning. "Mrs. Pacek, you wouldn't happen to know anything about a woman who called the Chicago Parole Board two weeks ago to offer Rex Parade a job here? She gave her name as Martha Johnson."
The expression on Pacek's face was answer enough.
On the way back to the station, Flaherty returned to the discussion he and Donaldson had been having earlier. "That was the problem at the very outset. No motive. You didn't have to look around that office much to see there was nothing there to inspire a break in, but we knew that Parade plied his trade for others. Now, it occurred to me immediately that he wasn't the one to want to plant a bomb there, and only a few moments with Mrs. Pacek convinced me that she wasn't some high-powered business executive who would have made enemies who would want to kill her.
"A call to the Chicago PD cleared up some of the mystery. A second call to the Pacek's older daughter cleared up the rest of it. Mrs. Pacek was a homemaker and had no business of her own. She was very much in love with her husband and didn't hide how she felt about his murderer. She was appalled when he got off scot-free. Well, Parade didn't know her. That was one thing she was truthful about. So when she found out he'd moved here, she–probably calling herself Martha Johnson for his benefit, too–contacted him to do a job for her. It turned out to be something along his old line. He was supposed to burglarize the office of "a rival" and get some papers out of the file cabinet. Naturally, he was only too happy to comply–for a sizeable sum. Did a good job, too. Right up to where he pulled open that drawer."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was enormously pleased with himself. It had taken him only twenty minutes to solve the crime, and he was certain that if Homicide Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty had been on the scene instead of out to dinner, it would have taken him a lot longer than that to do so. In fact, since the Lieutenant knew virtually nothing about computers–had actually admitted to never having laid hands on one–he might not have solved it at all.
Donaldson, of course, made no claims to being a computer guru. But he'd known enough about the machines to use the one in Chromer Higgin's office to zero right in on the killer. Sure, there had really been just two suspects, but a moment's application of that computer knowledge demonstrated that Perry Aspenwald was the only possibility.
The call had come through at eight-twenty-one. Donaldson had tried to contact his boss, but Flaherty had turned off his cell phone when he'd gone out to dinner. Leaving word with the desk sergeant to keep trying, Donaldson had raced off to the old First Commercial Bank building–a structure long ago abandoned for that purpose and now the office of Chromer Higgins, the state's number-one venture capitalist. Make that former venture capitalist, since it was his corpse on the second floor, lying by his receptionist's desk, his head badly battered by a heavy, old-fashioned three-hole punch that must have been a holdover from the building's ancient banking days.
By the time Flaherty arrived, the scene-of-crime personnel were wrapping up the last details, the deputy coroner had come and gone, the stretcher was being prepared for its burden, and Donaldson had already issued the order to pick up Aspenwald. Knowing that his superior was a stickler for details, Donaldson took out his notebook with the carefully kept record he'd just completed. Flaherty simply glimpsed at the body and, instead, went on into Higgins's luxuriously appointed office with the Detective Sergeant trailing behind, reciting from his notes as he did so.
"I arrived at eight-thirty-seven, sir, right behind the patrol car that answered the call. The security guard gave me all the details. The cleaning woman, who came in at seven-forty-one, was the one who discovered the body. In case you're wondering how come the times are so exact, Lieutenant, I'll explain that in a minute."
Flaherty seemed to be only half-listening, but Donaldson knew he was taking it all in, even though he seemed caught up in examining the late financier's office. "There were only three people in the building when we got here, the security guard, the cleaning woman and the deceased. As you know, sir, this building is about a hundred years old, built long before building codes, so there's only one entrance, the main one, and every window has iron bars on it. The only way anyone can get in or out is by going past the security guard."
The Lieutenant nodded as Donaldson continued reading from his notes. "Higgins was the only one in the building when the night guard came on at six. He had an appointment with Tadd Pettiford at seven and another at eight with Perry Aspenwald. We checked the whole building, incidentally, to make sure there wasn't someone hiding somewhere–not that there was much chance of that, not with this security system. Everyone who comes in has to sign in on that electronic gadget the guard has, and the time's recorded automatically. Then they have to sign out. By everyone, I mean everyone! He even made me sign in."
Flaherty grinned. "Cheer up, Donaldson. He made me sign in, too. Takes his job seriously."
"Yes, sir. That helped me to solve the crime so easily."
A raised eyebrow escaped Donaldson's notice as he went on. "Pettiford showed up at six-fifty-five and took the elevator up. At seven-thirty-nine he came back down the same way and signed out with the security guard, just as the cleaning woman showed up. The guard said he was kind of surprised to see Pettiford leaving so early."
"Why was that?"
"Oh, when he came in he'd asked if there was another appointment after him. Sounded like he was going to be up there awhile. Anyhow, the cleaning woman signed in a couple of minutes after Pettiford left–seven-forty-one, to be exact. The security guard and her gabbed for a while, and she started mopping the lobby floor to get it ready for waxing. This is the day it's supposed to be waxed. Aspenwald showed up at seven-fifty-six. He took the elevator up. The security guard was even more surprised at what little time Aspenwald stayed than he had been at Pettiford leaving so soon. According to the guard, Aspenwald couldn't have been up here much more than ten minutes."
Flaherty looked a question.
"I know what you're thinking, sir. How come no exact departure time–right? Well, Aspenwald acted mad as hell, claimed the door to Higgin's office was locked and that he'd pounded and pounded. Didn't get an answer. After complaining to the security guard, he stalked out without signing out. Actually refused to. So the guard made a note shortly after Aspenwald took off in a huff. The note went in at eight-ten."
"The guard said it struck him as kind of strange that Higgins wouldn't answer the door for someone he'd made an appointment with. Even stranger that the door was locked, since it was always open when the financier was there. So the guard called Higgins's office. No answer. It took him a while to decide to ask the cleaning woman to go up and check. He would have gone, he says, but he's not supposed to leave the front door for anything. So she shut off the waxer and took the elevator up. A few minutes later, she comes down the stairs screaming. Higgins's door was locked, but she had a key. It didn't take much looking to figure out Higgins was dead, what with the blood and all that. That's when the guard put in the call to nine-one-one. It was eight-twenty-one."
"So you figure Aspenwald was lying about the door being locked? That he came in and for some reason bludgeoned Higgins to death, and that it couldn't have been that Pettiford killed Higgins and simply locked the door behind him when he left?"
Donaldson grinned. "There's no question about it at all, sir. It's just a case of narrowing things down. The cleaning woman and the security guard are out. They vouch for each other, and neither of them had a motive. But Higgins's two visitors sure did. Just look at those folders. You may have heard of Pettiford. He's the genius who started that big software business marketing through the Internet. Well he was hurting, and Higgins was the one who was going to hurt him even more. Calling in his big loan. And he was doing the same thing to Aspenwald who's a local retailer. All that info is right there in those folders on his desk."
"So both of them had a motive. Why couldn't Pettiford have been the killer?"
Donaldson's grin broadened. "It takes a little computer savvy to figure it out, sir. When I came into the receptionist's office, I saw the screen saver flashing on the monitor."
"Screen saver?"
The Sergeant did his best to conceal his pride at knowing the intricacies of the computer world. "Yes, sir. The early monitors used to burn their screens if you just left them on without using the computer, so screen savers were invented to keep something moving on the screen when they weren't in use. Anyhow, I went over and tapped the space bar and up pops an e-mail Higgins sent at seven-fifty-five, ordering a book from Amazon. So he was still alive after Pettiford left and alive when Aspenwald got here. That leaves only one possibility."
Flaherty, who'd been sitting in one of the office chairs got up and said, "Why don't you get those folders together for evidence while I check with our computer whiz. I saw Officer Getz out there, and I'd like to have her explain something to me."
Donaldson hid his smile at the thought of Flaherty not knowing about e-mail and having to have the matter clarified. In moments, he gathered up the folders and emerged into the reception area to see Officer Sheila Getz sitting at the computer with Flaherty gazing at the screen over her shoulder.
A few taps of the keys and she looked up at the Lieutenant. "You guessed it, sir. Whoever typed in that seven-fifty-five e-mail did it at exactly seven-thirty-four and set the timer to send it at seven-fifty-five. That's the only possibility."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was in the midst of commenting about a recent postmortem when Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty's phone rang. Holding up a hand, Flaherty said, "Excuse me a minute, Sergeant," and punched the button on the speakerphone.
"Sheriff McKinnon's on the line, sir. He says it's an emergency."
"Put him on. Flaherty, here."
"I need your help, Lieutenant. I'm down here in south county with most of my crew on traffic at a brush fire that's moving along J-9, and I just now got a nine-one-one about an accident at the Philips Ranch. The original call was garbled, but someone's down. May be dead. All I could spare was one deputy–Cole Walters–and he isn't much. Told him to absolutely not disturb the scene in case there may be foul play involved. He should be able to handle that at least. I'm sending the medic crew that's standing by here, since it doesn't look like we'll be needing them. And I've alerted the county coroner–just in case. Any chance you could cover for me? I'll get out there just as soon… Oh, oh! Fire's jumped the highway."
"I'm on my way, Sheriff," Flaherty said, not waiting for the call to finish. Punching the off button, he started out, picked up his coat on the way and signaled for Donaldson to follow.
With the Sergeant at the wheel, they made record time. The gate to the ranch was open, so Donaldson roared through and to a stop in front of the ranch house. A uniformed deputy waved them over to a lot where cattle were milling around at the far side. Walters's first words were, "He's dead, no question about it."
Before Flaherty and Donaldson could determine much more than that Walters was correct and that the body of a large man–well over six feet and weighing in at at least two fifty–was lying a few feet on the other side of the fence, the county coroner had come through the gate and driven up to where they were standing. In moments he was out of the car. Formalities were minimal, especially since both of the officers had known Coroner McKitrick for years.
"Been talking to Lucille Philips on my way here. Not much we can do for Mike, but she's going to need help. I called Doc Cartwell and he said he'd get here as soon as he can. He's on another call, right now."
"She must be taking it bad." Donaldson commented as they peered over the fence at the corpse.
"Naturally. But it's more complicated than that. She's due to have a baby just about any time now."
McKitrick turned his attention to the deputy. "For Pete's sake, Walters. Get those cattle out of here so I can check out the body without being trampled."
Looking befuddled, the deputy said, "Sheriff told me not to disturb nothing."
Flaherty's eyes rolled upwards. "That's alright, Walters. I'll take the responsibility. Open the gate over there." He gestured toward the far end of the lot where the nervous steers had congregated. "And let them out into the field." The moment the steers sensed a possible escape route, the rush was on. Within moments the lot had emptied, and the two officers followed the Coroner over the railings to inspect the corpse lying supine a few feet from the fence.
"Phew. What a mess. Not much question but that the animals pounded across him a few times." Slipping on a pair of latex gloves, the Coroner began examining the broken bones, the crushed skull, the caved-in rib cage. "Oh, oh. There's something the cattle didn't do." He pointed to an especially bloody area on the man's shirt. "I'd guess that's a knife wound. I've seen a lot of them, and this one's typical. I'll be able to tell a lot more when I have him on a slab, of course, but I'll bet dollars to donuts that's what did for him, and not his herd."
"Let's back off, McKitrick," Flaherty said, himself retreating to the fence and leaning on the top rail. "I know it's a messy crime scene, but the crew will have to photograph everything as is. Meantime, maybe you can tell me something about the Philips. How well did you know them?"
"The wife and I visit back and forth with them. In fact, they were out to our place last night for dinner. I never much cared for him. Tight fisted character. I'll give him credit, though. He's the last of the cattle farmers in this area. Hung on for years. My wife's the one that kept us socializing with them. Lucille was all excited about the baby. Been wanting one for years. Mike wasn't especially pleased, though. I think all he saw was the expense.
"They've got visitors, by the way. Lucille's sister and her husband, from Montreal. Came in this morning. That was the big topic of conversation last night–what they were going to do out here in the boondocks to entertain people who were born and bred in a big city."
"Any idea what happened?" Flaherty nodded in the direction of the body.
"Some. Mike told us he was going to bring his yearlings into the loading lot today and send them off to the commercial feeder lots for fattening. Prices are high right now, so he decided to take advantage of them while the taking was good. Seems he came out around noon to check on them, just before lunch. When he didn't come back in by the time the food was on the table, his brother-in-law went out and saw him lying there. Thought he was dead, or at least hurt bad, and didn't want to get in with the steers to check, so he ran back in and called nine-one-one."
As he spoke, a wailing sound announced the approach of an ambulance at the same time a short, slender male, followed by an even smaller woman, came from the direction of the house, shouting, "Lucille's in labor."
Flaherty's comment was, "Looks like the medics are too late for the husband, but just in time for the wife. Not much point in adding to their problems. Let's take a look in the barn." The ambulance that had just come through the gate followed the couple frantically waving them to the house.
The three of them simultaneously spotted the blood spatters leading across the floor, out through the door and to the lot, but it was Flaherty who pointed to parallel scuffmarks on the floor on both sides of the trail. "Looks as though someone dragged the body out to the lot. Seems strange though, if they were trying to cover up the killing that way. Don't cattle avoid stepping on people?"
"Darn right," McKitrick answered. "Especially something all bloodied up the way that corpse is."
Flaherty gave that comment some thought before asking, "Do you know if anyone could just drive into the ranch during the day?"
McKitrick shook his head. "Mike always kept the gate closed. He could open it by remote from the house or the barn. There's a button and speaker box out there, so anyone wanting to visit or make a delivery could announce themselves."
"No other way in?"
The Coroner pointed to an aspen a few hundred feet south of the main gate. "There's a small walk-through gate there next to the tree, but it has a combination lock on it. Mike uses it to go out to go out to the road for the mail. I imagine his hired hand uses it too."
"Hired hand?"
"Yeah. Tully Freed. Not much of hand, and none too bright, but Mike gets him cheap. It keeps Tully in booze, so I guess they're both happy with the arrangement–or were."
"I'm surprised he isn't around," Flaherty said. While they were chatting, the ambulance came by, lights flashing, on it's way out through the gate. A van with the scene-of-crime crew yielded the right of way, and then drove over to where the trio were standing. A few words were exchanged, as the two men and a woman immediately climbed the fence and began to unravel yellow tape, take measurements and shoot photos.
The Coroner grinned at Flaherty's last comment. "Tully's got much better things to do. By this time of day, he's sitting on the end stool at the bar in The Cottonwood Café and Tavern."
The Lieutenant turned to Donaldson. "No need to put it off any longer, Donaldson. Let's go."
The Sergeant, who had been waiting impatiently said, "Yes, sir. I imagine we can drop by the hospital later to talk with Mrs. Philips, but we can question her sister and husband right here at the house."
"Hospital? House? No need. We're going to The Cottonwood Café and Tavern."
***
It wasn't until Donaldson and Flaherty were well on their way back to town that the Sergeant decided he had to satisfy his curiosity. "What made you dismiss the people in the house as suspects, sir?"
"Mainly the steer stampede, Sergeant. You heard what McKitrick said. Cattle won't tromp on people voluntarily. Someone who knew cattle, and wasn't afraid of them, ran them over the body several times. It was also someone who wasn't very bright, since that wouldn't cover up a knife wound, and it also had to be someone strong enough to drag a two-hundred-pound-plus corpse out to the lot. Well, you saw his in-laws. The two of them together wouldn't have been able to do that. Besides, they wouldn't have had the courage to go out among those animals, much less try to stampede them. And, of course, Mrs. Philips was in no condition to even think about doing something like that.
"No, it had to be someone who knew the farm, knew the combination to that gate, was strong enough to pull the corpse around and had a motive. That last had to wait until we questioned Tully Freed, of course. He admitted he thought Philips was cheating him. It's going to be up to the County Prosecutor to decide whether or not he planned the killing ahead of time.
"As McKitrick said. Mike Philips was a tightwad. It looks like this was one time when he was just too tight. Tully figured he wasn't getting enough to buy all the liquor he wanted."
Detective Sergeant Donaldson was pleased at how well the two patrolmen had handled the call, and even more pleased that Lieutenant "Fifty-Minutes" Flaherty recognized their efficiency. Even in the midst of a sweltering, muggy day, the men had done a book-perfect job.
"Yes, sir," Officer Roosevelt said in answer to one of Flaherty's questions. "The first thing I did when I entered the building was to have Officer Cohen check the rear entrance. The door was locked with a deadbolt and had the chain in place. If anyone went out that way, someone else would have had to lock it behind them."
Roosevelt quickly explained what he'd found when he'd arrived. "We got the call at eight-twenty-seven. The caller, Mr. William Sauer, was waiting for us outside of the victim's apartment. I went in and found Mrs. Cally Walker on the floor. She had obviously been dead for some time, and that's when I called the station. The scene-of-crime crew and the deputy coroner are up there now."
As Flaherty and Donaldson climbed the stairs, Roosevelt read off the names of the apartment complex's residents. "Mrs. Winifred Lun is the owner. She lives in the front apartment on the first floor next to the entrance. The apartment across from her is vacant. Mr. Manuel Corey and his wife, Lucille, live in the rear apartment. He works the evening shift at Fuller Machine Works, so he wasn't home this evening–left around three. The victim lived in the rear apartment on the second floor. Mr. Sauer has the front apartment to the left of the stairs, and Ms. Lois Selick is across from him. I've told everyone to wait in their apartments until the investigation team arrived."
As Flaherty and his Sergeant entered the victim's apartment, the deputy coroner greeted them with three upraised fingers. "Three hours ago, give or take a half hour. For what my guess is worth at this stage, Flaherty, she was hit with that brass candleholder–one blow. The corner of the base caused that cut you see and fractured her skull. It looks as though it happened over there." He pointed to fresh bloodstains on the beige rug. "And you can see a trail over to that marble pedestal. She was probably crawling–trying to make it to the phone on the pedestal, fell against it and knocked it over. By then she lapsed into unconsciousness and couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes."
Flaherty nodded, looked briefly over at the body of what must have been an attractive middle-aged woman, turned to Donaldson and said, "We'll start with Sauer."
As they turned to go, the Sergeant shook his head at sight of the murder weapon with its rough surface. There'll be no fingerprints worth looking for on that thing, he thought.
William Sauer was a small man, not much more than five-four, slender in build, somewhere in his late sixties or early seventies. His eyes were red, and he had obviously been crying. Without waiting to be asked, he said, "I found her shortly after eight. I can't believe she's dead. I just can't believe it. We were supposed to go out to dinner tonight. I called her at eight, and there was no answer. Well, I thought she might be in the shower, so I waited about ten minutes, tried again. Still no answer. That's when I went over and knocked. When she didn't answer, I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I went in and there," His eyes filled with tears at that point.
The Lieutenant waited a moment before asking, "Did you hear anything before then from her apartment? Any indication of a struggle?"
Sauer shook his head. "Nothing except sometime around six-thirty or so. I was shaving at the time. Just a loud thump, like she'd dropped something. I didn't think anything about it. No shouting or banging around, if that's what you mean."
As the officers left his apartment, Sauer said, "I just don't understand it. She was the nicest person. How could anyone have done this to her?"
Lois Selick had obviously been waiting for her visitors and gave every sign of looking forward to the interview. Cups and cookies were laid out on the dining room table. She waved the officers to chairs and was pouring coffee even before they'd accepted her offer.
"I'm not a bit surprised," the rather plain, middle-aged woman said once they were settled. "She wasn't any better than she ought to be, and she was leading poor old Sauer around by the nose. I'm sure he didn't know she did a lot of entertaining when he wasn't around, if you know what I mean."
It was obvious to Donaldson that no spur was needed, and that Flaherty was giving the horse free rein. Sipping his coffee, and nodding encouragement, the Lieutenant waited for more and it wasn't long in coming.
"If you ask me, she invited the wrong man up to her apartment this time. And you needn't go suspecting Bill Sauer. He's absolutely harmless. Just a bunny rabbit. And putty in that woman's hands. He doesn't know it, but he's lucky she didn't sink her hooks in him. He has a good pension and social security. That's all she was interested in. That and those fancy restaurants he took her to. If you ask me."
Flaherty broke in at that point. "Did you hear any noise from her apartment? Any indication of a struggle?"
"No. And you don't have to be a detective to know why. She knew the man who did it. He found out she was two-timing him, and he did her in. No shots or anything like that. Probably stuck her with one of her own kitchen knives."
"So there were no unusual noises from her apartment?"
"I'll give her that much. She was never very loud, even with all of her entertaining. There was the noise of something falling–I don't remember when, sometime while the six o'clock news was on–but I didn't think much of it at the time. Was that when she was killed? It must have been. That was the sound of her falling, wasn't it?"
Flaherty and Donaldson managed to extricate themselves in the midst of a few more comments about the failings Ms. Selick's deceased neighbor.
Going down the stairs and to the manager's apartment, which was at the foot of the stairway, Donaldson commented, "It sure would have been a lot easier for someone in the building to have killed her than for an outsider to have come in, and then left unnoticed. Of course, she could have let someone in who buzzed her apartment, and maybe they could have quietly eased themselves out afterwards."
Flaherty made no comment.
It took Donaldson only moments to dismiss Mrs. Lun as a possible suspect. Her arthritic hands clearly indicated she would not even have been able to lift the putative weapon, let alone do any damage with it.
In answer to the Lieutenant's first question, she said, "I didn't hear anyone go in or out this afternoon after Mr. Corey went off to work. Didn't see anyone, for that matter, during most of that time."
She smiled at the puzzled expression on her interrogator's face at that statement. "The air conditioner's been acting up, so I had my windows and the apartment door open most of the afternoon, hoping to get a cross breeze. I sat here reading and facing the doorway, trying to get a breath of air, from about four o'clock on until I got up the energy to get some food together. That must have been after seven."
"Could anyone have used the stairway to the second floor without your knowing it?"
"If anyone had come into the building this afternoon, or gone out, I would have seen them. But I can't see the stairway from my chair, so anyone could have gone up and down a dozen times if they were in the building, and I wouldn't have known it if they wanted to be quiet about it."
"Did you hear any noise from Mrs. Walker's apartment during that time?"
"Not a sound. These are all good, quiet tenants. But then I wouldn't have heard it up front here, what with her being in that back apartment."
The Lieutenant's next comments, addressed to the Sergeant, caught him by surprise. "Donaldson, would you check with Mrs. Lun about any guests or visitors who may have been visiting the tenants this past week. I want to go up and talk to Roosevelt about something."
Puzzled, Donaldson did as he was asked and drew a blank. Mrs. Lun seemed rather miffed at having a lowly Sergeant taking over the questioning. She was not aware of the presence of any outsiders but, since she had had her door open only that afternoon, there would not really have been much opportunity for her to see anyone come or go. For good measure, she added that she didn't make a habit of peering out the front window to check on who might be visiting her tenants.
As the Sergeant was leaving the old woman's apartment, Flaherty was coming down the stairs. "One more to go," he said.
Donaldson estimated that the matronly Lucille Corey was somewhere in her fifties. By now, Flaherty seemed a little impatient as he pushed the questioning along. The answers came easily. Mrs. Corey was between jobs, so she had been home all day. No, she hadn't seen anyone come into the building that afternoon or evening, but then she wouldn't have noticed, having been busy taking advantage of her enforced vacation by doing some needed housecleaning. No, she hadn't left the apartment all day, since she had been busy cleaning out all her cupboards. No, she hadn't heard any signs of a struggle in the upstairs apartment. Absolutely no noise of any kind. She hadn't even been aware of the killing until the police knocked on her door and informed her of Mrs. Walker's death.
"I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about her. I hardly knew her."
A thump and muffled sound of something falling overhead startled her and interrupted her comments. Flaherty smiled at the reaction.
On the way back to the station Donaldson had to acknowledge he still didn't know how the Lieutenant had figured out that Lucille Corey–who had finally admitted to killing Mrs. Walker because she was having an affair with Manuel Corey–had murdered her rival.
"That falling pedestal provided the answer," Flaherty explained. "If the tenants all agreed to having heard the noise, it wouldn't have meant anything, but when Lucille Corey said she hadn't heard it, it was tantamount to a confession. We know that Mrs. Walker survived for a short time after being hit. But it was obvious the killer didn't know that. After hitting her, Corey just panicked and left the apartment, went down the stairs, and the pedestal fell over before she got back to her own apartment.
"I had Roosevelt knock over the pedestal while were in her apartment to make sure it could be clearly heard down there. Since we all three distinctly heard it, the fact that she hadn't heard it the first time meant she hadn't been in her apartment all day as she claimed. So where was she then when it fell the first time? The only place she wouldn't have heard it was at the foot of the stairs or near there at the front of the building, on her way back to her apartment–after doing in Mrs. Walker.
"Or, if she did hear something, she probably couldn't tell from where she was at what apartment the noise came from, and certainly wouldn't suspect that someone she'd left for dead had made the noise.
"You know, Sergeant, a lot of times the perpetrator knows too much about what happened, and that trips him up. This time was different. She knew too little."
END