Birtcher said, “Come on, Al. If you’ve got something I want to know about it. Don’t give me any ‘copy cat’ shit.”
“How solid do you think your case is?”
Birtcher gestured to the file that Maharos had returned to his desk. “You read it. You tell me.”
Maharos knew he would get no cooperation from Birtcher unless he leveled with him. “Okay, Charlie. Here are the similarities: Horner was found dead in his car. So was Burnstein. Both on side roads. Horner was shot twice with a .22, once at the base of the neck, the second between the shoulder blades. Burnstein was shot in the same places although with a .25. Either one of the two gunshot wounds could have been fatal. Why hit these guys twice? Here’s another thing: the techs vacuumed some blue wool fibers from the carpet in the back of Horner’s car. I see in their report they found some in Burnstein’s car. We ought to have someone run a comparison, if it hasn’t already been done.”
Birtcher fixed his gaze on Maharos without speaking. He stood up from his chair and walked to the window looking out with his hands clasped behind his back. “You realize, Maharos, you’re knocking my case into a shit heap—not to mention inviting a lawsuit for false arrest and imprisonment.”
Maharos could feel the tension rising in Birtcher. He knew the turmoil that must be going through his mind and tried to console him. “Assuming there’s a connection between the two homicides—which so far is based on conjecture.”
Birtcher turned to face him. There was no humor in his expression now. “You want to talk to Harwood, right?”
Maharos nodded.
“Okay. Let me contact his lawyer. If he says it’s all right, you got it.”
Homer Lavant had been the leading criminal lawyer in Canton for more than twenty-five years. His flamboyant dress and courtroom histrionics were distracting enough to draw attention away from his client. His behavior, calculated to be obnoxious, often influenced juries to react sympathetically toward the poor bastard who had him for a lawyer.
Lavant bounced into the waiting room outside Lieutenant Birtcher’s office where Maharos had been waiting. Five foot-five, weighing 200 pounds, he looked like Santa without the beard. His flowing white mane brought emphasis to the pinkness of his skin. His smile exposed a row of evenly capped white teeth as he greeted Maharos. “Sorry you had to wait, Detective. I was in the middle of a trial.”
Maharos nodded. “I understand. I think Lieutenant Birtcher
told you that I want to talk to your client, Lance Harwood.”
“That’s all he told me. Obviously, I want to know why.”
“I’m investigating the homicide of a Youngstown resident, an attorney named Horner—you may have known him.”
Lavant nodded. “Not personally, but I know of the case. What possible connection is there to the murder that my client is accused of?”
“All I can tell you at this time is that there are some similarities in the two. I can’t go into it in any more detail, but I can assure you that Harwood is not a suspect in the case I’m investigating. In fact, Harwood was in jail when Horner was killed.”
Lavant gazed at him without speaking for a few seconds. Maharos could sense the man’s wheels turning. The lawyer wanted more information. Perhaps he could wheedle it by threatening to refuse the interview with his client. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t do, Mr. Maharos. I need to know why I should allow Mr. Harwood to be interrogated at this late stage. You know, of course, that his trial is scheduled for next week.”
“I realize that. All I can say is that any information I can get from talking to Harwood is more likely to help him than hurt him.”
Again Lavant shook his head. “Too vague, Maharos. I won’t do business with you under those restrictions.”
Maharos rose from his seat. “Then I’m afraid it’s no go. If you change your mind let me know.” He held out his hand to the lawyer.
Lavant put up his palm like a traffic cop and smiled. “Okay. You’re a good poker player, Maharos. But I’ll be there with you when you question him, of course.”
“Of course.”
Even though he wore ill-fitting, gray prison clothing, Lance Harwood made Maharos feel poorly dressed. He sat erect, opposite the detective at a round table in the interrogation room with his arms folded defiantly across his chest. His blonde hair was swept back from a broad forehead, his light blue eyes slightly hooded. Alongside Harwood, sat Homer Lavant.
Maharos asked, “Mr. Harwood—may I call you Lance?”
Harwood nodded.
“Mr. Lavant has probably told you that my interest in talking to you is that I’m investigating a homicide which has some similarities to Frank Burnstein’s murder. Let me say at the outset that you are not suspected of being involved in the case I’m investigating, is that clear?”
Harwood nodded again. Lips tightly compressed.
“Does the name George Horner mean anything to you?”
Harwood looked over to his lawyer. Lavant said, “Go ahead and answer.”
Harwood opened his mouth to speak but Maharos held up a hand. “Hold it. Before you answer, I want to be sure you’re doing it of your own free will, and not because your lawyer suggested it.” Maharos was making sure he was not cutting a hole in the prison wall for the guy to slip through on a legal technicality. A stunt like that was vintage Lavant.
Harwood nodded and said. “I understand, I’ll answer. Isn’t he that lawyer guy who was killed?”
“Right. Did you know him or have any connection to him in any way?”
“No. The only thing I know about him is what I read in the papers.”
“How about Noah Hamberger?”
Lavant held up a hand in front of Harwood before he answered. “Wait a minute. What are you trying to pull? Who is Hamberger?”
Maharos said, “Why don’t you let the guy answer? I’m not trying to ‘pull’ anything. Either he knows or doesn’t know.”
Lavant thought a moment then said, “Okay, Lance.”
Harwood said, “Never heard of the person.”
“Your file says that you had owned a .22 caliber gun. What happened to it?”
Lavant broke in. “Wait a minute. Come on, Maharos, you know better than to ask about a pending case.”
Harwood waved him aside. “I don’t mind answering. I’ve already explained about that gun to the detective who arrested me after Frank’s death. I had bought the gun a few years ago because I often go—went—to people’s homes to help them in decorating. Also, I often went in the evening. This city is getting so you can’t walk around at night even in the good neighborhoods. Know what I mean?”
Maharos’ head bobbed once.
Harwood went on. “For a few months I carried the gun, but it was bulky and, frankly, it destroyed the lines of my suits. I stopped carrying it and stuck it away in a drawer. I really forgot all about it. And then, a year ago the apartment that Frank and I shared was robbed. When I reported to the police what was missing I had completely forgotten about the gun. In fact I didn’t even remember it until they reminded me about it when they questioned me about Frank’s death. They found out about it, because it had been registered in my name. I’m sure it was stolen in the robbery. But, of course, the stupid police wouldn’t believe my story.”
Maharos said, “Lance, I know that you and Frank Burnstein had quarreled, and the record shows that you had attacked him. Can you tell me what your fights were about?”
Lavant stopped him before he could answer. “Now I’m really going to put my foot down. Lance, I forbid you from answering. Maharos, I think I’ve been patient enough with you. I’m terminating this interview.”
Maharos had learned from the file that Harwood claimed he was at home, reading and watching television the night Burnstein was killed. He had read the interrogation transcript after Harwood had been picked up. He recalled the questioning:
DET. SUMMERS: What did you two fight about?
HARWOOD: Oh, it was so awfull
y silly. I’m ashamed to talk about it. The first time, we had been to a party and Frank spent the evening talking to this young man, a poet. Well, to make it brief, I’d had a few drinks and when we got home I accused Frank of making a pass at the boy. Frank laughed it off, I flew into a rage and, well, you know what happened. The second time, I think it was just a few days before he was—before he died, Frank didn’t come home from the hospital until almost midnight. He always called when he was going to be late, but this time I didn’t hear from him until he walked in the door. I was furious. He told me he had taken one of the nurses out to a bar for a drink after work. A girl! I flipped, of course. It was ridiculous. Anyway, one thing led to another and I—well, it was only a teeny cut on his hand. They made a big thing of it in the ER. Put stitches in it, for God sakes. All it needed was a Band-Aid.
Now that Lavant had signaled the end of his interview with Harwood, Maharos got up to leave. Harwood dropped his chin to his chest and slowly shook his head. When he raised it to gaze squarely at Maharos, his eyes were misty. His voice broke as he answered. “Frank was the dearest, sweetest, kindest soul I ever met. He never harmed anyone. I can’t conceive of anyone who would want him dead.”
Maybe someone who was insanely jealous, Maharos thought. He rose, extended his hand and said, “Thank you. You have been most cooperative.”
Harwood touched his little finger to a corner of an eye and asked brightly, “Is any of this information going to help clear me?”
Maharos smiled and shrugged. He thought that Harwood had made a remarkable recovery from his grief.
ELEVEN
Although Maharos’ desk was in the back corner of the squad room, he could see the note propped up on it as soon as he walked in the door. From the size of the notepaper and the huge capital letters, a rookie cop, much less a detective first grade, could have figured out that Lieutenant Bragg was unhappy about something. It read, “SEE ED BRAGG!!”
In the three days since he had spoken to Lance Harwood in Canton, he had questioned three other homicide suspects on the list Karen Hennessy had prepared for him. He had interviewed the families of two additional murder victims, and spoken to police and sheriffs in Akron, Wooster and Alliance, cities in the northeast Ohio area. So far, the only case in any way related to the Horner and Hamberger killings, was that of Frank Burnstein. In that one, as in the others, he had reached a dead end. From Burnstein’s coworkers at Mercy Hospital he had learned only that Flossie, as they called him, was the last person in the world anyone would want to kill. Obviously, someone (and he doubted it was Harwood) hadn’t gotten the word.
The growl that came from Lieutenant Bragg’s office in response to his knock, confirmed Maharos’ suspicion that he was in trouble.
Bragg’s eyes were almost obscured by his scowling brows. The down turned corners of his mouth reached his chin. “Come in and close the door,” he ordered.
Maharos remained standing and Bragg did not offer him a chair.
“What the hell are you trying to do to us, Maharos?”
“Sir?”
“Don’t give me any of that ‘sir’ shit.” He pointed to the phone on his desk. “That thing has been ringin’ like a three-alarm fire for the past two days. My ass has been tore ragged by everyone in the state from the Canton D.A. to the Chief Justice of the Ohio Supreme Court in Columbus. They all want to know why my department is torpedoing a case they’ve been building for the past five months and for which they’re about to go to court in a week! And they want to know what right one of my men has to talk to prospective witnesses in a trial that’s out of our jurisdiction.”
Maharos decided to buy time. Quietly, he said, “Mind if I sit down?”
Bragg thundered, “I don’t give a shit whether you sit, stand or flip on your side. I want you to explain to me what the fuck is goin’ on.”
Slowly, patiently and softly, Maharos related where his investigation of Horner’s murder had taken him. Bragg listened while impatiently tapping the edge of his desk with a pen and staring intently at him. Maharos concluded, “Look, we want to find out who the killer or killers are. We sure as hell don’t want to see an innocent person convicted.”
“Oh? Now, we can forget about the principal of a Trial by Jury? Now, we can save the time and expense of courts and trials? Now, all we need is some smart-ass detective who sticks a wet finger in the breeze and tells us who did what to who? Come on, Maharos, I don’t need a sermon from you about convicting an innocent person.”
Maharos shrugged. “Want me off the Horner case?”
Bragg pursed his lips and let the thought sink in before he answered. “Okay. I’ll tell you what I want: I want you to stay on the case. I’ll give you another two weeks to come up with something.”
“Three.”
“All right, three. But that’s it. And I want a report on my desk every time you sneeze. I want to be on top of this thing minute-by-minute. Understood?”
“Yes sir.”
* * *
The list showed no homicides on February 7th that fit the pattern. In fact, there had been only two homicides in the state on that date, one in Toledo and one in a small community outside Springfield, and both had been motor vehicular homicides. A hit-and-run driver had been apprehended, convicted and sentenced in the first, and a drunk driver was serving a jail term for the second.
The March 7th list contained the name of Marlon Graves, a resident of Talmadge, Ohio, a small town outside Akron. He had been shot to death and his murder was still unsolved and under investigation by the Summit County Sheriff’s Department.
A phone call to the sheriff’s office put Maharos in touch with Deputy Sheriff Norton Kohler, the officer in charge of the investigation. Kohler told him that Graves had been a clothing salesman in Talmadge and had been found shot to death in his car on a dirt road near Barberton, a few miles away, and just off I 77.
Kohler told him, “We found out that Graves was a pretty heavy gambler. Probably not a very good gambler, which is why he sold clothes for a living. Anyway, on the evening he was killed, he called his wife from the clothing store in Akron where he worked and told her that after work, around six, he planned to drive to Richfield for a Cavalier’s basketball game. He said she should go ahead and eat dinner by herself; he’d grab a bite at a stand at the game. He mentioned to one of his co-workers that he planned to stop off at the home of a bookie on his way to the game, and place a bet.”
Maharos said, “Did he meet with the bookie?”
“No. We questioned the guy. He said Graves had called before he left the store, but never showed up.”
“What kind of bets did he usually make?”
“Anywhere from one to five hundred, occasionally as much as a grand.”
Maharos whistled. “That’s heavy. Do you think it’s possible he had a winning bet and the bookie paid him off with lead.”
“No. We know the guy. He’s not gonna knock off anyone for that kind of dough. He can take a two-, three-grand loss without any sweat. The same bookie collected over four K on other bets just that night. Besides, he told us that Graves was a regular customer of his, and over the course of a year the guy would drop a bundle on track and football bets. He was sure he’d get back whatever he might have lost—if Graves had lived.
“There’s another reason we’re sure the bookie didn’t do Graves. He had a rock solid alibi for his whereabouts most of the evening.”
Maharos thought he wouldn’t trust a bookie’s alibi regardless how solid it seemed. “What’s rock solid?”
“Shortly after he spoke to Graves, the Akron police picked him up for soliciting bets and booked him into their jail overnight.”
That’s rock solid, Maharos agreed, unless he had a hit man working for him. “Did the bookie operate with someone else or a syndicate?”
“Tony D’Alsandro’s a loner, but he’s honest—and in this case, clean.”
“Did Graves have the money he planned to bet when they found him?
&n
bsp; “Nope. No money, no wallet.”
“Any idea if he made it to the game?”
Kohler said. “We have no way of knowing. We showed his picture around to the ticket sellers, ushers, vendors. We got nothin’ but laughs from them. They’re too busy with the crowds to remember one face from another. I personally don’t think he got to the game.”
“Why?”
“We found him in his car right outside Barberton. That’s south of Akron. It’s the opposite direction from Richfield where he’d be going if he went to the game.”
“Any other leads?”
“Nope. And we’ve stopped trying. The case is cold now. By the way, what’s your interest in this?”
Maharos briefly told him that he was investigating any cases that fit the M.O. of Horner’s murder. “I’ll stop by this afternoon and have a look at your file on Graves, if it’s all right with you.”
“Sure.”
* * *
Maharos sat in the file room of the Summit County Sheriff’s office with the papers spread out on the table before him. Before he was half through, he knew he had found a match to go with the Horner, Hamberger, Burnstein murders. The autopsy report showed the same pattern of gunshot wounds although the bullets recovered were from a .32 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver, different from the weapons used in the other three cases. The guy must have an arsenal, thought Maharos. Ballistics studies did not match any other cases on file. All the latent fingerprints recovered were those of the victim. Fiber analysis of the vacuumed material from the car and the victim’s clothing gave no clues. Unlike the other three cases, there were no Navy blue wool fibers reported.
One curious finding turned up in the chemical analysis of dirt particles found in the floor carpeting of the car. A substance in trace amounts was identified as glutaraldehyde. It was not present on the soles of Graves’ shoes, and could have been tracked in by the killer. Maharos had no idea what glutaraldehyde was. He picked up the phone on the desk in the file room and asked to be connected with the Summit County Crime Lab. He asked for the chief technician. The operator said, “That will be Jerry Schwartz.”
Barry Friedman - Dead End Page 7