“Okay. Let’s talk to him.”
Five minutes after Matron Clemens escorted Mrs. Morgan out the door, a patrolman escorted Octavius Morgan in. Anna recognized him immediately as Sue’s lover—the magnificent mustachioed man from the Jonquil Café. His eyes roamed the station wildly as Matron Clemens escorted him past Anna and Joe and into an interrogation room. His mustache gleamed, turning up at the ends in perfect curls.
“Yep, that’s him.” Joe turned to Anna, “Why don’t you question him?”
Her face lit up. “Really?”
“Really. I’ll just sit next to you and look menacing. You know. You charm him. I’ll be the threat.”
“All right.” Anna beamed at him like a ray of sunshine. “You be the threat. I’ll question him first for as long as I can, and when he clams up, we’ll bring in Matilda. He might be our man from Mars.”
“Agreed.”
She was still beaming as they entered the interrogation room. Beside her, Joe’s face hardened into stone.
Anna led. “Good afternoon Mr. Morgan. I am Assistant Matron Blanc, and this is Detective Singer. My, what a luxurious mustache you have.”
Mr. Morgan’s hand reached up and touched his upper lip. He grunted unintelligibly and shifted in his seat. “Why am I here?”
“We just want to question you,” Anna smiled sweetly. “Your wife has accused you of manly weakness, but I don’t believe it for a moment.”
A hint of a smile flitted across Joe’s stony face.
Mr. Morgan looked confused. “She accused me of what?”
“Don’t worry Mr. Morgan. It’s not a crime.” She tossed her head dismissively. “And, like I said, I don’t believe it. Rather, I’m accusing you of bad timing, among other things.”
“Bad timing?” Little specks of sweat beaded on Mr. Morgan’s forehead. A rivulet trickled down his nose and disappeared into his mustache. Was it guilt?
“Case in point—if you were going to kill your blackmailer, you shouldn’t have paid him first. He only gambled the money away and spent it on ugly suits. His suits are criminal, and now you are an accomplice.”
The suspect paled. His collar was soaked from sweat; his breathing had become quick and shallow. He loosened his necktie leaving it slightly askew.
Joe leaned forward. “Would you like a cup of water?”
“No, that’s my line.” She frowned. “But I don’t want to get him water.”
“All right. Let’s switch,” said Joe. He went to the door and poked his head out, whispering to someone in the hall. “Could you please bring Matilda here. I think she’s upstairs. Oh, and a cup of water please.”
Anna’s mouth hardened. She stood and paced behind Mr. Morgan, lowering her voice. “We know you contributed to the delinquency of Miss Sue Henry, exchanging money for her attentions. I saw you together and she will testify. And for this you will pay. Do you deny it?”
“It’s not illegal. She’s a whore.”
Anna slammed her fist down on the table, causing him to jump. “It is illegal. She’s a child, and you ruined her. And she’s not a whore. She thought you were courting her.”
“I didn’t know how old she was. You can’t prove that I did.”
“And when Samuel Grayson blackmailed you, threatening to tell your wife and the whole world, you killed him. But stupidly, you paid him first. Bad timing.”
“I didn’t kill Samuel Grayson.”
“Where were you four weeks ago Tuesday?”
He rolled his eyes up in thought. “I was in Fresno visiting my aunt.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Yes. I can provide half a dozen witnesses.”
“Are you loaded? Do you buy garnet cross necklaces for girls at the Jonquil? Are you the Black Pearl?”
His eyes flashed. Helmut Melvin opened the door carrying a cup of water and accompanying a quivering Matilda who seemed to be holding her breath. When she saw Mr. Morgan, she exhaled.
“Miss Matilda, is this the man from Mars?”
She blinked her blond lashes. “No.”
Mr. Morgan leapt to his feet. “I won’t be made fun of by a woman.”
Joe put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down into his chair. “Sit down and answer Matron Blanc’s questions.” He loomed with menace.
Anna drew her brows together and looked at Joe. “Now no one is being nice.”
“He doesn’t inspire kindness. Let’s put him in a cell,” said Joe.
When Octavius Morgan was settled in the bull ring, Joe walked Anna upstairs to her storage closet. Her face registered disappointment.
“Good work, Sherlock. You caught him.”
“Not yet, I didn’t.”
“We arrested him for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. That’s not nothing.”
“Agreed. It’s just I was hoping he was the killer, I mean, if Edmands isn’t the killer, which he probably is.”
“Morgan might have done it. We haven’t checked his alibi. I’ll ask his wife before she finds out we arrested him. Then, I’ll follow up with whoever it was he allegedly visited in Fresno.”
“It’s just . . . when I accused him of corrupting Sue, he sweat. He didn’t seem worried enough about the murder.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll look into it thoroughly. If he did it, he’ll pay for it.”
CHAPTER 43
In life, the odds always seemed stacked against Anna, mostly because she was female, but partly because she had the worst imaginable luck. In her present circumstances, she desperately needed luck. If she couldn’t crack the case of the Griffith Park Executioner, her own dear brother, Georges, might hang. She wouldn’t be able to look at Joe, much less make love to him, because it would be his failure, too, his betrayal, his deadly mistake. She would be alone.
Anna didn’t trust herself to save Georges on her own. She needed supernatural help, and she needed it soon. God was powerful, but unreliable, and not always on her side. The saints were a better bet, but how could she assure they’d be in her camp when she’d been so naughty as of late? They might not always understand when something was an emergency.
A little repentance might be just the thing. Anna opened her bottom desk drawer and removed a stack of rubber diapers and inside diaper squares that she kept for refugee babies. They covered a treasure beneath—a manual stolen from the coroner for Anna’s education—his brand-new copy of Legal Medicine. It had all kinds of wonderful insights on worms, scavengers, and how to best collect clues from dead bodies—even rotting and dismembered ones. She had read it seven times already, having stolen the previous coroner’s copy as well, though that copy had burned. She felt this particular repentance would be a sacrifice she could manage. Georges could always buy her a new one.
Anna carried the book, hidden by a fur muff, downstairs into the coroner’s office. He wasn’t there, though a cup of coffee steamed on his desk. She left him a note asking him to please visit Anna in her own office.
She returned to her desk and sat on the edge of it, as she sometimes did when she was alone, her legs swinging. She picked up the Edmands’s wedding picture and was staring at their unsmiling faces when the coroner entered. Anna leapt to her feet. He wasn’t wearing his white coat, just a fine suit, his hair neatly cut and combed, his tie well-coordinated. Anna noted that he had luminous brown eyes and a thorough knowledge of legal medicine—the kind that might make other police matrons—those who were not in love with Joe Singer—swoon.
He came over to her desk. “Assistant Matron Blanc, we’ve never been properly introduced.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Dr. Haar, the coroner.”
Anna took his hand and shook it. “I’m very pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise. Now, how can I help you?”
Anna handed him the book. “I recovered this tome from a thief. You don’t know who it might belong to?”
“A thief? How odd.”
“I thought so. The thief didn’t explain, although he said he
was very sorry.”
He opened the book and read the book plate. “Yes, this is my book. Thank you for recovering it.”
“It’s my duty.”
“If you ever need anything from me . . . I don’t know, if you’d like me to give advice to a troubled boy or—”
“Attending an autopsy would be wonderful. One for a murder victim, or perhaps a decomposing body. Practical experience is everything. I feel it will help me in my work.”
“Your work? Right.” He laughed. “Anything you wish. Your reputation precedes you.” He colored. “I mean, your professional reputation. Not your . . . You solved two murder cases.”
“More than that, actually. I dispatched the New High Street Suicide Faker and the Trunk Murderess of Chinatown. I also solved the case of the Head Chopper Offer and the Hatchet Thrower, also of Chinatown.”
“I am impressed.” He looked impressed.
“They mostly give Joe Singer the credit, but you can ask him. I solved the cases. Detective Singer always tells the truth. He’s too good, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure that I do.”
An awkward silence followed. The coroner picked up the framed wedding photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Edmands. “Are these your parents?” He glanced at the photo, which depicted a young couple dressed in clothes that had clearly been sewn at home. “My mistake, these aren’t your people. You come from wealth.”
“Yes, they’re not. It’s a murder suspect and his late bride. He probably killed her. His name is Mr. Edmands. He came to Los Angeles two months ago. He’s violent, drunken, and I’m looking for him.”
The coroner examined the photograph more closely, this time focusing on the man. “Two months ago, you say?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve met him.”
Anna’s pulse quickened with excitement. “You met him?
Where?”
“Unfortunately for him, I met him on a slab. He died in a bar fight in Chinatown, late January, right before Chinese New Year. He was a drinker. Red nose. Enlarged liver. Even dead he smelled like a still.”
Anna frowned hard. “That can’t be right. You met someone else. What was his name?”
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and rubbed his chin dramatically. “Let me see . . . John something.”
“You see—”
“Oh yes, John Doe.” He quirked a smile.
Anna’s mouth curved down. “No, it can’t be the same man. How could you possibly remember him after two months when you meet so many dead men?”
“He had a strawberry birthmark on his forehead. Look.” The coroner pointed to the photograph and a shadow on Mr. Edmands’s brow.”
“That could be dirt.”
“A dirty face in a formal wedding photo? I think not, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
Anna had known her explanation to be false, even as she uttered it. But there could be more than one man with a strawberry birthmark. “You could be mistaken.”
“Maybe. I can tell you one thing about him. The label in his shirt was from a shop in . . .” He wrinkled his brow, thinking. He snapped his fingers. “Oklahoma City.”
Anna’s good mood vaporized. Her key suspect, the man that could lift suspicion from Georges, was already dead when the crime had been committed. He had likely never found Samuel Grayson at all.
Anna’s eyes lost focus and she no longer paid attention to the coroner. She was thinking.
“Assistant Matron Blanc?”
Anna only vaguely heard him over the sound of her hopes crumbling.
“Have a good night, Assistant Matron Blanc.”
When Anna raised her eyes to answer him, he had already gone. She’d been rude. She kicked herself. Then, she kicked herself for kicking herself because what did rudeness matter when her brother’s very life was on the line. She kicked herself again because she didn’t know how to exonerate him, and because she was mixed up, as if she’d lost her compass and her way.
CHAPTER 44
A wash in anguish, Anna’s stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It reminded her that Matilda would have to be fed. She strode to the cabinet where the matrons kept charity food for the refugees. She knew Matron Clemens had secured new funds, but had she stocked the cupboard? Anna opened the cupboard door and found a tub of lard, a bunch of carrots, pickled herring, six loaves of stale bread, and a stalk of brussels sprouts with roots and dirt still attached.
She made a sandwich of lard, herring, and bread. Joe walked in and found her chewing. “Anna, come sit down. I have something to tell you.” He looked somber.
Holding her sandwich, she followed him back into her storage closet and sat at her desk. He closed the door. Anna set down the sandwich, which no longer seemed so tasty. Her stomach now churned with dread. “What is it, then? Is it Georges? Has he had a seizure?”
Joe took Anna’s hand. “No. I mean, I don’t know. Anna, that’s Georges’s fingerprint on the gun.”
Anna snatched her hand away. “Suddenly you’re sure. Before you said it was inconclusive.”
“The guy from New York—the NYPD fingerprint expert—he says it’s Georges’s. No question about it.”
“Then that’s Thomas’s fingerprint on the gun. Remember? Georges didn’t drink the water. Thomas obviously filled the glass.” “You were right about that. The partial fingerprint on the gun doesn’t match the fingerprints on the glass. Those prints probably are Thomas’s. But I got Georges’s fingerprints from this.” He picked up the crystal vase on Anna’s desk, the one that had contained the strange floral arrangement that Georges had used to introduce himself to his sister.
“There must have been lots of fingerprints on that vase.”
“Presumably belonging to you, Mr. Melvin, Georges, and whatever florist made that weird arrangement. One of them matched the print on the gun. So, unless the florist did it . . .” Joe sighed. “I wanted to tell you before we bring him in.”
Anna felt dizzy and slumped in her seat. She could come up with no more convincing explanation than that Georges had pulled the trigger. And even if she could, it wouldn’t help if Georges were guilty. Joe would test Georges’s fingerprints from the man himself.
But Georges was kin.
It occurred to Anna that Samuel Grayson had kin, too—a batty grandmother—and that Anna needed to find the truth to bring justice to Samuel, though his grandmother thought he was just out of town.
Anna could not flinch. Who would she be if she flinched? She would be a flincher. Maybe she was a flincher.
She realized that Joe was kneeling beside her, that his arms were around her. “Anna, I’m so sorry.”
Anna twisted free from his embrace and stood up. She did not feel like cuddling. She wanted to hit something. She punched Joe on the shoulder and ran.
It was 5:00 p.m. when Anna let herself into Georges’s hotel room. The place felt ominously empty. Still, she called out, “Georges? Thomas?”
No one answered. She threw her purse, coat, and hat onto the settee. She wandered through the suite, finding no one, except the pampered little dog who slept on a cushion. She needed to speak with Georges, to ask for an explanation, because she couldn’t think of one. She opened the door to his study. It smelled like her father’s study, of cigar smoke, wood polish, and leather. And, another scent—something faint but recognizable—the spicy scent of a Blanc man—a male body wearing Old Bay Rum. The scent evoked a jumble of feelings Anna couldn’t even name. Her whole life, her family had consisted of one man—a father whom she had loved and who had, at last, abandoned her for bringing shame upon him. And then Georges came along. Now, against his will, Georges would abandon her too. He would leave her for the gallows.
Anna ran her fingers along the books in the oak bookcase: The Commercial and Financial Chronical; novels in French by Flaubert, Victor Hugo, and Dumas; and The Language of Flowers. He must have taken it from her father’s house. She moved to his desk looking for a clue, anything that might give her direct
ion. She found nothing but a sense of guilt. She was a bad sister. She pinched herself. And a bad detective. Even though she wasn’t a cop at all. She pinched herself twice.
Anna stripped off her matron’s uniform and frillies. She donned a nightgown and robe de nuit that she’d bought with Georges’s money. She flopped onto her bed that was Georges’s bed in Georges’s hotel room and cried until her head ached.
The clock chimed 5:30. She felt the mattress sink under the weight of someone’s body as he sat beside her on the bed. A hand stroked her hair. “Ma douce sœur. Is it Joe Singer? What has he done? Should I have a talk with him?”
Anna growled, “Your fingerprint is on the murder weapon.”
Georges was silent for a moment. “That’s impossible. And how can he know that? He doesn’t have my fingerprint.”
“He got it from that beautiful vase of interesting flowers you gave me.”
“It must be a mistake.”
“A fingerprint expert from New York made the match.”
Georges sighed. “What was the murder weapon? A knife? A revolver? A bottle of poison?”
“A revolver.”
He thought for a moment. “I owned a revolver. I kept it in my automobile. But it was stolen weeks ago along with my umbrella and a blanket.”
“Why did you have a revolver?”
“Rich men are sometimes held up on the road, Anna. Highway men.”
“Did you report the gun stolen?”
“What’s the point? I’ll never see those things again.”
Anna rolled over and looked up at him trying to see if he was lying—if he lied as easily as she did. Her father, too, was a liar with his second family and hidden fortune.
Georges’s dark eyes seemed sincere, but she could rarely tell when someone was lying.
“There was one print on that gun and it was yours.” She glared. “Aren’t you scared? They could hang you!” Anna buried her face in her arms. “And then where will I be?”
“Anna, I didn’t do it. I didn’t kill that man. I never met that man. You have to believe me. Why would I kill him? I didn’t give him money. I was innocent. I had nothing to lose. No wife. No one to be angry with me. Possibly father, but he would be one to talk, that hypocrite. Only you. I only have you.”
The Body in Griffith Park Page 27