The Silver Anniversary Murder

by Lee Harris

  I am not a strong swimmer but I am an enthusiastic one. I had one of the reserved lap lanes to myself, and I glided back and forth, regaining my dormant skills. Finally, I let my mind travel back to thoughts of the Mitchells.

  The essential question was still unanswered: What had the Mitchells done to enrage the man and woman, according to my logic, who had hunted them down and killed them? Maybe the Mitchells had bilked them out of money. Maybe the Mitchells were con artists who had gone too far with a mark.

  I came to the end of the lane once again and decided I’d had enough for a first dip in the pool. As I usually did, I lay on my lounge under a huge shade tree and let myself dry. I had a book with me, but I was too consumed with the Mitchell homicides to concentrate on reading. One thing I knew for sure: This was not a crime of the moment. This crime had been planned for years and executed accordingly. What puzzled me was how I fit into it. The woman had known my full name and who I was in the community. I believed I had been talking to a killer, not a victim. She must have known that by alerting me I would stir the pot, so why did she call me that day in May?

  “They’re all interesting questions,” Jack said in the evening. “And I can’t answer them any more than you can. But I agree this wasn’t a crime of opportunity. These people were marked for death, hunted for the kill. By the way, we don’t yet know that the dead man is the husband of Holly Mitchell.”

  “True, but it’s a good bet.”

  “Joe promised to fax me the sketches as soon as they’re drawn. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “I hope the artist has enough to work with.”

  “They have special guys that do that sort of thing. Remember when you got someone to make a head sculpture for you a few years ago and then he changed the age?”

  I did remember. It had been fascinating to see. “OK. I’ll just wait for the sketch. I want to show it to Gladys.”

  “I’m sure the cops’ll show it to the building manager and the neighbors. Someone there’ll ID him.”

  “What I need is someone from the past, one person who can place that couple in a city where they were known before they started running. It’s as though they built a concrete wall around themselves and someone has to crack it open. If we could get those sketches on TV, maybe someone would come forward.”

  “You’re not getting it on national TV,” my husband the realist said. “And if they come from the Midwest or the West, no one in New York City is likely to have known them.”

  I found out the next day that the driver’s license for Charles Proctor had a photo on it. That would give something to compare a sketch to, when it was done. The medical examiner was able to lift fingerprints from the body in spite of the decomposition. What they did, Jack told me, was inflate the fingers with a gas, press the fingertips on an inked board as though they were living fingers, and then roll them on special paper. In this case, as in the case of Holly, the prints were clear enough to be usable.

  The man’s death had indeed been caused by a gunshot, one to be exact. The shooter had stood in front of him and aimed at his heart. The bullet was found inside him, a .38 caliber lead slug fired from close range, leaving tattooing on the clothes and some on the skin. The bullet had carried cloth threads into the entry wound. The lab report stated that the muzzle of the gun was approximately two inches away when the weapon was fired.

  Joe Fox assured me there would have been plenty of blood. The ME’s office would analyze the blood in the body for DNA and compare it to the stains found in the apartment bedroom. Perhaps now there would be a match.

  The man had been wearing a business suit but there was no wallet or other means of identification on him. An indentation on his left ring finger indicated he had worn a wedding ring for a long time. His shirt was a common brand available in many stores, and the suit, while moderately expensive, could be bought in any number of outlets. Neither victim had worn shoes and none of their clothing had a store label.

  The man, however, had a scar from an appendectomy done many years ago. I didn’t think that would be of much help, though, as appendectomies are common.

  The police still didn’t know what had killed the woman.

  Joe Fox said that an enlarged version of the license photo had been recognized by the building manager, but not with great certainty. It was the wife who usually came down if there was a problem, and there weren’t many problems with the Mitchells. But the woman across the hall, the one who had said she didn’t have much to do with them, recognized both the picture of the man and the sketch of the woman. A few other tenants thought the couple looked vaguely familiar.

  But the man who had seen people loading the vehicle with furniture said he just couldn’t be sure about the man.

  7

  In the morning, Jack called with a ballistics report from Joe Fox. “The bullet was nice and clean,” Jack said. “The ballistics guy said it had nice lands and grooves. It was either a new gun or a new barrel.”

  The lands and grooves, as Jack had explained to me in the past, referred to the markings on the lead bullet. The tiny markings are the result of the lead bullet passing through the steel gun barrel and rubbing against the riflings inside. These riflings, which are spiraled grooves, cause a bullet to rotate around its longer axis prior to exiting the muzzle of the gun. Using a microscope, ballistics experts compare bullets and can tell when two or more have been fired from the same gun. As a barrel becomes old, much used, or pitted, the markings on the bullet change and blur. Changing the gun barrel changes the markings on the bullet.

  Jack had also received by fax sketches of the second victim, which he would take home with him tonight. “Maybe we need a fax at home,” he said. Now that we had a computer, he seemed interested in adding appendages to it, and I, the nervous money manager of the family, kept telling him all these things he considered both wonderful and necessary would get little if any use. When I left St. Stephen’s and took up a secular life, I bounced into the end of the twentieth century with a start. I was reluctant to move much further, especially when all these addenda were three figures apiece.

  “Don’t do anything precipitous,” I cautioned, knowing it would have no effect. Jack’s office at One PP is in that part of New York that is filled with enticing electronics outlets, and he is easily enticed.

  “What’s on your agenda today?”

  “I want to talk to the building manager. I know the police have questioned him, but I’d like to do it myself.”

  “Aren’t you the gal who said she was keeping out of this case?”

  “You know me, Jack. No self-restraint.”

  “Well, I think the building manager’s a good idea. You may pick up something they overlooked. See you later.”

  I drove over to the apartments and found him just walking into his office. “Mr. Stone, I’m Chris Bennett Brooks. We met last month when I came over with Detective Palermo.”

  A frown smoothed into a welcoming look. “Mrs. Brooks, yes, I remember. That was the day we found the apartment empty.”

  “Right.”

  “Sit down. What can I do for you?”

  “I suppose you heard that Mrs. Mitchell’s body was found last week.”

  “Yeah. And his body turned up a coupla days ago.”

  “Right.”

  “Have they figured out for sure if it’s Mr. Mitchell’s yet?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kind of assuming it is.”

  “Stands to reason.”

  “I’m interested in this case because I got that phone call last month, the day I came over with Detective Palermo.”

  “Sure.”

  “The case has been moved to the sheriff’s division.”

  “I know. And they’re a pain in the rear, if you know what I mean.”

  “How so?”

  “They’ve questioned me about a hundred times. I keep telling them I don’t know anything and then they come back again and ask the same things. It’s like they think I’m keeping
something to myself and I’m not.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” I said, thinking that could be quite an annoyance. “I wonder if you’d mind talking to me about the Mitchells. I promise I won’t bother you.”

  He gave me a grin. “That’s OK. I wasn’t complaining about you. But I don’t know what I can tell you. They kept to themselves and I didn’t see them much. They were generous at Christmas, I’ll tell you that.”

  That didn’t surprise me. They wanted to keep on good terms with this man. If anyone ever came asking questions, he might not answer them if he thought it would jeopardize his end-of-the-year gift. “Did anyone ever ask about them? When they were alive, I mean?”

  “Not that I recall. They must have paid their bills on time. They didn’t have a beef with anyone that I know of.”

  “Did anyone ever come looking for them?”

  “Never.”

  “Were packages for them left with you?”

  He thought a minute. “Maybe once in a while. Yeah. I think so.”

  “Do you remember where those packages came from?”

  “Uh, no. One was UPS—I’m sure of that.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Coupla months.”

  “Any sent by mail?” I was desperate for a return address.

  “Could’ve been. I just don’t remember. I get a lot of packages here. I just wait for folks to come around and pick them up. I don’t really look at the packages.”

  “Do you know if they had visitors? Either overnight or just for the evening?”

  “I can’t even see their entrance from here. I wouldn’t know. That woman who lives across the way would be your best bet.”

  “How long did they live here, by the way?”

  “Almost two years. There’s only a couple of months or so left on their lease.”

  “Do you know where they came from?” I knew the building management company would have ordered a financial report on the Mitchells and that the police would have already gotten their rental file.

  He got up and went to the file cabinet in the corner of the office. “Out of state,” he said, reading from a file folder. “They didn’t have any local references, but they gave us three months’ rent in advance so we gave them the apartment. They never paid late and they always paid in cash—you wouldn’t believe how many checks bounce in this place, and these people are supposed to be so rich— so I’d say they were good tenants. We didn’t make a mistake.”

  “Do you know if they had children?”

  “They could’ve, but I never saw any around here, not young ones, anyway. If anyone was living with them in that apartment, I don’t know about it.”

  “Mr. Stone, I’m going to leave you my name and phone number. If you remember anything or if someone should happen to come in asking for the Mitchells, I’d appreciate a call.”

  “Sure thing. You’re a lot easier to talk to than that cop. He really makes me nervous.”

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t.” I wrote down my usual information and gave it to him. He studied it for a moment, then stuck it in the edge of the blotter on his desk. We shook hands and I left. I hadn’t learned much, but I thought I’d made a better impression than the person who’d been hounding him.

  In the evening, Jack came home with the sketches. They were a good match with the driver’s license photo so we assumed that the body was that of Peter Mitchell and Charles Proctor. The next morning, Friday, I called Gladys French and asked if I could come over. She was thrilled to hear from me, delighted I wanted to visit. Although she invited me for lunch, I declined.

  She nearly kissed me as I entered her house an hour later. “How nice to see you again,” she said with a big smile. “Come in and make yourself at home.”

  I did just that, sitting on a worn but comfortable chair in her living room. I handed her the sketch and the license photo.

  She nodded. “That’s him.”

  “Who?” I asked, wanting a positive identification.

  “Rosette’s husband. That’s the man who sat in the back of their car and read the Times every day.”

  “I think I told you they may have used more than one name. You’re sure you never heard her call him by name?”

  “The first time she picked me up, she said something like, ‘That’s my husband in the backseat with his nose in the paper.’ I just thought of him as Mr. Parker.”

  “OK.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you wanted to ask? I thought you were going to tell me you found the person who killed Rosette.”

  “We haven’t. And the reason I’m asking you about the man in this picture is that his body was found the day after I talked to you.”

  “What?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Oh my God. Who would do such a thing, Christine? Who could be so cruel as to kill such a nice couple?”

  “I have no idea. But we’re sure now that this is Rosette’s husband, and we know someone killed both of them.”

  “Terrible,” Gladys said, shaking her head and looking gloomy. “What’s happening in this world?”

  It wasn’t a question I could answer and I didn’t try to. I stayed a few minutes longer, asked if I could drive her anywhere, and left when she said she had no errands that day, that she intended to do a little weeding in the back. It was good exercise and the garden needed it.

  I knew I didn’t have to ask Larry Stone to ID the sketch. The detestable cop would have been at his doorstep the minute the sketch was completed. What I did was drive out of Oakwood and go to a few banks with my pictures to see if the couple, by any name, had had an account.

  I tried a number of banks with no success. I began to think they might maintain an account far from New York State, perhaps where they had once lived or even a place where they had never lived. The police might be able to locate such an account if they had the correct Social Security number, but as far as I knew, no such number was known at the moment. And I didn’t have the access that the police did.

  It was disheartening, but not unexpected. I was starting to get hungry when I saw a small bank down the street from where I had parked my car. There was just enough time to drop in and give it a try.

  The bank was almost empty, only one young mother with two preschool children standing at a window. I found a single desk occupied and sat down in the chair beside it. The woman identified as manager smiled and asked what she could do for me.

  “I wonder if either of these people might be customers of the bank,” I said, laying the sketches on the desk.

  “He doesn’t look familiar. May I ask what this is about?”

  “These people were Oakwood residents who have apparently been murdered.”

  “Are they the ones whose bodies—?” She seemed incapable of articulating the facts.

  “That’s right. No one knows who exactly they are and where they come from. I knew them slightly and I have some time, so I thought I’d do some digging. I don’t suppose the police have been here?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. Let me see the woman.” She picked the sketch up and inspected it. “She came in here and opened an account but it was a long time ago. I didn’t see her in the bank again so I assume she used the drive-up or the ATM. And I can’t remember her name.”

  “Would you recognize it?”

  “I can look it up.”

  “Holly Mitchell.”

  She turned to her computer and keyed in the name. I couldn’t see the screen but I watched her face. She shook her head. “I don’t get a hit on that name.”

  “Rosette Parker.”

  She typed again. “She’s a customer, yes. But I can’t swear she’s that woman in the picture.”

  “That’s good enough. Can you tell me if you sent her statements to this address?” I wrote down the apartment address.

  She checked her screen. “No, they went to a box number. It’s kind of coming back to me now. She said she’d had a lot of trouble with mail delivery and she didn’t
want important things going to where she lived. I can’t disclose the box number, but I can tell you where the box is.”

  “Thank you.”

  She wrote it down and handed me the paper. It was one of those Mail Boxes places.

  “Is the account in her name alone?” I asked.

  “Yes, Rosette Parker. There’s no one else.”

  “I assume it’s a checking account.”

  “That’s right. It’s the only account she has with us.”

  I gave her the two names I had for the husband and she checked both of them with no luck. It appeared that Rosette wrote the checks for the family or her husband banked elsewhere.

  “When did she open the account?” I asked.

  “About two years ago. This is amazing. What a terrible thing to happen.”

  “Do you have a Social Security number for this woman?”

  “Yes, indeed. We can’t open an account without one. But I can’t disclose it.”

  “I understand. Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Hanover,” I said, reading her name off her desk sign.

  I went home and had lunch. Eddie was with a friend today and I didn’t have to pick him up till late afternoon. When I had finished the last of my tomato juice and sandwich, I called Joe Fox.

  “That sounds like a good day’s work,” he said. “How did you find the bank?”

  “I drove out of Oakwood toward White Plains, just on the chance that they might use a bank on the way to work. This is quite a small one, just a storefront. I’m surprised it hasn’t been grabbed by one of those invaders that are scooping up banks all over the place.”

  “That’s probably why we missed it,” Joe said, but I thought I heard a sigh. “We’ve been looking into the conglomerates without any luck at all.”

  “You can talk to Mrs. Hanover. She’s the manager. She seemed to recognize the sketches and Rosette Parker came up on her computer. She has a Social Security number for Rosette but she wouldn’t give it to me, of course.”