“When’s the last time you saw her?”
“About four days ago. Look, I’m very upset! Can’t you tell me what happened?”
“In a moment.” His voice implied more command than explanation. “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“Also four days ago.”
“What did you talk about?”
“Clothes.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes, well, she talked about a party.”
“What party?”
“She didn’t say. She just said she was going to have one and asked me for suggestions on who she should invite.”
“And you gave them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like you to make a list of the names you mentioned.”
She nodded. “They were all her friends.”
“Good. What else did you talk about?”
“That’s it. Clothes and the party.”
“And she said nothing out of the ordinary?”
“No.”
“Nothing strange or disturbing?”
“No.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
He held up another piece of paper, read it. and declared, “She’s been in the building on Eight-ninth Street a week.”
“Almost two,” Jennifer corrected.
Gatz added a notation to the paper. “Have you seen her apartment?” he asked. “Or been in the building?”
“No,” she replied.
“Has anyone you know?”
“Her boyfriend.”
He grinned. “I see,” he said with a peculiar note of anticipation in his voice.
The door opened once more; Michael entered the room. He nodded at Jennifer, then walked, unaware of Detective Gatz’s presence, to the bench and sat down.
Seeing Gatz, he shot to his feet, his cheeks a deep crimson.
Gatz sat grinning coldly, his right foot beating slowly on the cement floor. “Sit down!” he ordered, his eyes revealing a hatred that matched Michael’s virulent expression. “Sit!”
“What the…”
“Sit down, I said!” commanded the detective angrily.
Michael reluctantly did so.
“What are you doing here?” Michael said at last.
“It’s my job, isn’t it?”
“There are other detectives in the city!”
“How true! But this case interests me. You see, I was sitting in Division Headquarters when the call came in and it sounded like the usual nut case murder. So I was about to assign one of the third-grade detectives. There’s just something about psychos that don’t intrigue me. I like murders that are the products of evil minds. But you know that already. So, as I’m saying, I was about to do a disappearing act, when I heard the name of the broad and the guy whose calling card was in her pocket. And what do you know? I come flying out of my office faster than hell, because I knew that with you involved, it had to be a pretty dirty matter.”
“What happened to Allison?” asked Michael, ignoring the insult.
Gatz scowled. “What was the name of your wife…the poor kid…Karen?”
Michael gripped the underside of the bench. It was all he could do to restrain himself from leaping at Gatz and smashing him through the wall.
Gatz smiled. He enjoyed watching Michael torture himself.
“What happened to Allison?” repeated Michael Farmer through gritted teeth.
“Allison Parker?” Gatz was taunting him.
Realizing the detective’s purpose, Michael released his grip on the bench, relaxed the taut muscles in his face, and sat back calmly. “Yes, sir, Allison Parker.”
The game was over. Gatz reclined in his chair and gathered his thoughts. The Karen Farmer case. He’d spent six months digging and probing, until his superiors had forced him to close the file. Then he was transferred to another division and busted in rank. He’d never forget it…nor the fact that he was sure he’d been right and everyone else wrong. And here, right in front of him, was Michael Farmer, but as much as he wanted to dig, he couldn’t dig back into the past. At least not yet. Right now he had the Allison Parker case, and he had to get to the bottom of it first. Then, if his luck held, discover the truth about the death of Michael Farmer’s wife.
“I haven’t got much of an idea as to what happened. So, as far as I’m concerned, nobody’s suspected of anything yet. And that includes you, too, Farmer. Like I say, a man’s innocent, until proven guilty.”
“Did you think that up all by yourself?”
“Don’t start, my friend,” cautioned Gatz, standing up. The sheriff’s chair rocked behind him, squeaking. Detective Richardson leaned over and stopped the seat. Gatz glanced approvingly at his assistant and began to pace the floor.
“It seems we had a rather strange incident last night. One Allison Parker was found roaming the streets, hysterical, screaming she’d just stabbed her father to death.”
Michael gasped. He sat frozen in place as did Jennifer, and then he blurted, “That’s impossible! Her father died of cancer weeks ago!”
Gatz frowned. He leaned forward and pulled a clipboard off the table. Simultaneously, he picked up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and, after placing them precariously about the bump on his nose, examined his notes with deepening interest. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Absolutely! You can call her mother if…” He caught himself midway through the sentence. “No, you’d better not,” he corrected. “I don’t think she could handle this. Call the police authorities in her home town. They’ll confirm.”
Gatz removed a cheap pen from his shirt pocket, leaving behind a dark ink stain; he shook the pen violently to force the oozing ink down toward the point where it belonged. The paper crackled, as he carefully crossed out the name and address of Allison’s father and inscribed the word “deceased.” Returning the amended paper to the table, he once again sat back in the chair and stared at Michael.
“Let me review some facts. Your relationship with Miss Parker is?”
“Friend.”
Gatz gritted his teeth, indicating his displeasure.
“Boyfriend,” Michael corrected.
Gatz smiled impolitely. Satisfied, he turned his eyes toward Jennifer. “And you’re her friend?” he asked.
“You already know that.”
“And you two know each other.” It was a statement, rather than a question. He’d observed their silent greeting, when Michael had first entered the room. Nodding, Gatz stood and once again began to pace the floor. The cigar, which continued to hang from his mouth, was somewhat shorter now; he’d bitten off a portion of the chewed-up end.
He stopped and leaned against the wall below the sealed windows. He regarded his two interested parties suspiciously.
“We found some blood on her clothing, but it turned out to be her own from a cut on her forearm. Type: AB, Rh negative. Then we searched the apartment in the building, where she said she’d killed the old man, and we found no blood, no corpse.”
“Which apartment?” asked Michael.
“4A. Ever been in there?”
“No.”
Michael looked at the floor, Apartment 4A. The one Allison had complained about. A shiver ran down his spine.
“Not only that, but we found no evidence to indicate any kind of struggle.”
“In the apartment?”
“In the entire building!”
“Did you talk to the old priest?”
“The old coot’s deaf and blind and useless.”
“And Chazen? And the other tenants?”
“Who?”
“The other tenants in the building! Charles Chazen, Mrs. Clark, a pair of fat sisters…I forget their names…and a few others.”
“I’m warning you, Farmer. No games.
”
“Now you wait a minute. I’m trying to find out what happened to my girlfriend, and I don’t think it’s being too demanding to assume that the police, especially a detective as diligent as yourself, would have talked to the other neighbors who just might have seen or heard something relevant.”
Gatz sucked in his stomach and whipped the cigar up and down angrily.
Michael looked at the detective, puzzled.
“I’ve been through every apartment in that building in the last six hours,” said Gatz, “and there’s no evidence that anyone’s been living in any of the apartments in years, except Miss Parker and the priest!”
“What?” Michael cried, having received his second major surprise. “That’s impossible! Allison met them all. Spoke to them. Spent some time with them in their apartments.”
“Did anybody else you know?”
“No!”
“That’s interesting.”
Gatz pivoted away, removed the cigar from his mouth, and spat a wad of tobacco into his ashtray. Jennifer cringed; Michael stared at the detective’s back, awaiting Gatz’s next pronouncement. Gatz stood relatively still, thinking, and then turned to the silent detective, who stood patiently to his right.
“Two sisters…Klotkin…that’s it and there are a pair of lesbians…I don’t remember their names.”
The assistant hesitated. “No one could have been living in those places.”
“I know, but we’ll check on these people anyway. They might not live there but, for some reason or other, hang out in the building.”
Richardson nodded.
“What’s the landlord’s name again?” Gatz asked.
“Caruso. David Caruso,” replied Richardson.
“Have Rizzo try these people on him.”
“Yes, sir,” Richardson said, as he walked out, leaving the three alone.
Gatz adjusted the position of his fedora and began to pace the room, once again.
“When can I see Allison?” Michael asked.
“The nurses will let us know. Until then, we’ll continue our chat, just like in the old days.”
Michael restrained himself. “You said that there’s no evidence anything occurred there, right?”
“I did?” Gatz smiled sadistically and turned toward Jennifer. “How long did you say you know Miss Parker?”
“Two years.”
“Have you ever seen her hysterical like this before?”
“No. Allison is a very rational and controlled person.”
“Is she?” Gatz asked skeptically, his tone suggesting that he knew otherwise.
“She’s been under a great deal of strain lately,” said Michael.
“What kind of strain?”
“Her father. The illness dragged on for almost four months. Since his death, she’s been tense and unsettled. She’s been eating and sleeping badly. She had a couple of nightmares. And then she fainted at a fashion show two days ago.”
“I see. That might explain it. A nightmare. Hallucination. Whatever.” There was a long pause. “But then again, it might not.”
“You might try finding a corpse.”
“If there’s one to find…and I think there is…we’ll find it. And when I do, I’m going to see to it that it’s pinned around someone’s neck. And I’m not going to miss a second time.”
Michael remained unmoved.
“Where were you last night from three to five in the morning?”
“Home.” He flushed with rage.
“I’m not so sure,” said Gatz vindictively.
Michael exploded. “Now wait a minute! I don’t like the tone…”
“No, you wait a minute! A woman is brought in claiming she murdered her father, hacked him to death with a knife. The facts, I like facts, say that that’s impossible. But maybe she killed someone, who she thought was her father. That seems a little more probable. Or maybe she has a screw loose and belongs in a funny farm. But something keeps telling me that the limburger sitting in the mousetrap is smelling and might catch a big fat rat. Now wouldn’t you ask a few questions, if you were me? Especially if the parties had been involved in a suspected homicide once before. And especially if the rat might be the famous Michael Farmer.”
Michael sat, silenced. Gatz was right, at least as to the investigation. Any cop would do the same. But Michael knew what really was on the detective’s mind. No matter how fair and honest Gatz might try to appear, no matter how impartial, Michael knew.
“As soon as I’m able to, I’m going to get some information out of Miss Parker, so that this thing will start to make some sense.”
Gatz chewed another piece of tobacco off the stunted cigar; he was satisfied. Until he could find a body and until the woman in room 211 was lucid enough to make some sense, there was little else he could do. But it was also possible that there would be no body and no evidence of a crime. Then Farmer would walk away from him again. And his chance to get something on the lawyer, after his previous failure, would be gone. No, it couldn’t be. No matter how senseless this whole incident seemed, it certainly made more sense than assuming that one man could be involved in two suspicious homicides and have nothing to hide. Gatz’s years of experience told him that. And so did the sharp, stabbing pain in his gut. No, Farmer had murdered his wife and now he was up to something else. He’d play it smart this time-out of necessity. He’d go slow and steady; and when he got the facts he needed, he’d pounce like a leopard. He smiled.
The wall phone rang. Gatz pulled the receiver off its cradle. “Yeah, Gatz.” He listened intently and returned the receiver to its place.
“She’s awake,” he announced. He sat back and examined his notes. “You can go see her now.”
“Is she all right?” Jennifer had watched the exchange between Michael and Gatz with fascination.
“Ask the doctor,” Gatz said curtly. “She’s in two eleven. Go down the hall and take the first left. And after you’re done, we’ll continue with our little discussion.”
“I can’t wait,” Michael said. He stood up.
“I’m flattered,” replied Gatz.
Michael turned and walked Jennifer through the door. “What was that all about?” she began, as they started down the hall.
“Nothing.”
“I’m not so sure; he obviously has something against you.”
“I’m telling you, it’s nothing. And it’s too far in the past to be worried about.”
“How far?”
“Before you came to New York.”
“How long before?”
They walked several steps silently.
“Long enough,” he said after a pause. He was getting irritated. Jennifer sensed it, shut her mouth, and quietly followed him into the side corridor.
Unlike the main hallways, this one was practically empty. A large desk stood at the entrance. A policewoman sat behind it.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” answered Michael. “Room 211.”
“Your names?”
“Michael Farmer and Jennifer Learson.”
Her expression remained neutral. But she said, pointing, “Go down to where the policeman is sitting. That’s two eleven.”
Michael grabbed Jennifer’s hand and led her down the hall. The woman turned and waved to the seated cop, who’d looked up to her for instructions. He stood and opened the door behind him.
A nurse stepped into the doorway.
“How is she?” Michael asked.
“She’s heavily drugged, so she’s very groggy. But other than that, I think she’s doing fine.”
“Can she be taken home?”
“Not yet.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“You’ll have to speak to the d
octor. He can tell you more than I can tell you.” She paused, then smiled reassuringly, suggesting that she could supply some additional information. “I’m sure she’ll have to stay here at least two or three days, until the effects of the shock and the exposure wear off. She has a severe sore throat, too. The infection is not that serious, but we do want to prevent unnecessary complications. I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes.”
“You can only have five minutes. The doctor wants her to get as much rest as possible.”
“Thank you,” said Michael.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the nurse begged, while smiling.
Michael nodded and stepped into the room; Jennifer followed, closing the door. Inside, they stood in stunned silence, staring at the hospital bed.
Allison lay under a blanket. Her face colorless. Her lips swollen and her eyes unresponsive. Her body was extended, rigid and motionless. She seemed more frail than he’d ever seen her. Almost lifeless.
They approached the bed on different sides.
Michael reached down and took Allison’s wrist. She did not react.
“Allison,” he whispered.
Her eyes continued to stare at the ceiling. He called to her again, louder, but she remained unresponsive.
“Allison, it’s Michael and Jennifer,” said Jennifer leaning over.
Allison’s lips parted. A tiny bubble of saliva emerged, hung over her lower lip for several seconds, and then burst. Her jaw moved slightly downward; she was trying to speak. Her eyes moved slowly to Michael and widened with recognition. The pupils reflected the pain; they told nothing about what had happened.
Jennifer pushed herself over the bed, her mouth near to Allison’s ear. “Can you hear and understand me? Can you?”
Allison moved her hand. Again she tried to open her lips without success. No words were formed, just another bubble which soon burst silently like its predecessor.
Michael glanced at Jennifer. “It’s senseless to ask her questions,” he said. “She can’t respond.”
Jennifer didn’t agree. “Allison,” she called, “I want you to answer me.” Allison’s focus withdrew from Michael and moved to Jennifer. “Allison, what happened last night?”
Her eyes widened in terror; a gurgling moan surged up from deep in her throat and the colorless lips parted, futilely trying to form the proper words.
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