Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  “No sir.”

  The phone on his desk buzzed. He listened, then said, “Dr. Hanson, I’d like to know who performed the autopsies on two homicides that were done in your morgue. One was Henry Gibson the other was—,” he gestured with his chin to Maharos.

  “—Frank Burnstein. It was done around January 8th.”

  McAllister repeated the information and waited with the phone at his ear. His face remained totally impassive. This is a no-nonsense guy, thought Maharos. A few moments later, he said, “I see. Did you go over Dr. Browning’s autopsy report?…Uh-huh…Do it and get back to me…No, I won’t tell you what I’m looking for. I don’t want to influence your opinion. Goodbye.”

  He placed the phone back on the cradle and spoke to the other two. “Dr. Glen Browning did the Burnstein autopsy. He was working in the Medical Examiner’s office while Hanson was on vacation. When he returned, Hanson briefly went over all the cases Browning had done, but apparently not in detail. Says he was swamped with other work. We’ll soon find out if the wounds were similar.” He spoke to Maharos. “We’re as interested in this as you are. I’m going to assign Deputy Vandergrift to work with you. Do you want to discuss this with your chief?”

  Maharos nodded. “Can I use your phone?”

  Ed Bragg listened when Maharos told him about the sheriff’s offer. He was enthusiastic in his acceptance. Maharos wondered if he would be as thrilled if he knew that Deputy Vandergrift was an attractive woman.

  THIRTEEN

  Rankins drove the Dodge van at a steady fifty-five from Massillon, Ohio to Pittsburgh. It was an easy two and one-half hour drive through pleasant countryside. The window on the driver’s side was open; the warm breeze massaged his face.

  He didn’t need radio talk shows to occupy his thoughts. The voices coming from the back of the van kept him company. First, Willie Jackson sang in his rich baritone, “Sweeeeet Chariot, Comin’ fo’ to carry me home.” The song gave him a lump the size of a golf ball in his throat. But the topper was when King David sang,

  “The waves of death were all around me,

  The waves of destruction rolled over me,

  The danger of death was around me,

  And the grave set a trap for me,

  In my trouble I called to the Lord,

  I called to my God for help,

  In his temple he heard my voice,

  He listened to my cry for help.”

  He felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he listened. With his eyes glued on the road ahead, he called back over his shoulder, “I hear you too, Dave. I’m coming with help. You wait and see. Just you wait and see.”

  At the outskirts of Pittsburgh, the traffic was heavier. When he reached the western end of the city, he turned off Route 30 and crept along behind an unbroken line of cars and buses. Had to close the window to keep out the stinking gas fumes and the heat that bounced up from the cement street. With the air conditioner on it wasn’t too bad.

  He turned right to a street of old, gray two-story houses with patches of brown dirt and weeds for lawns and pickup trucks in the driveways. Two blocks further the houses were older and dingy, and there it was. He parked in front, the paint on the house looking like an alligator’s hide, got out of the van and stretched his back.

  Climbing the wooden porch stairs, he had to step around several that were split. He rang the doorbell, saw the curtains in a downstairs window part, and Duane Jackson’s face peered out. In a moment, the door was opened and Jackson’s height and bulk filled the doorway. The bare black skin of his shoulders, covered only by the thin shoulder straps of a lavender tank top, glistened with sweat. Jackson gave him a big, toothy smile. “Hey, m’man, c’mon in.”

  They walked through the unlit hallway back to the kitchen, which always smelled like stale beer. Jackson gestured to a chair. “Somethin’ to drink, Jock?”

  Jock, short for jockey, because he was so small. The name Duane’s brother, Willie, gave him at Lima State. Rankins would get fired up if anybody else called him Jock. Of course, Willie could call anybody anything. Nobody’d tangle with a guy six-eight, two-eighty and all of it steel. But he was Willie’s buddy—his asshole buddy. When Rankins was getting out, Willie told him if he needed anything to see Duane. Well, he’d seen him before, was seeing him again.

  “How ‘bout it, somethin’ wet?,” Duane repeated.

  Rankins shook his head. “I got to get back soon. What have you got for me?”

  “I got a nice forty-five I can let you have for three-fifty. Or how about a three-fifty-seven Magnum? Give you a good price on it.”

  “No. Something small.”

  “Another twenty-five?”

  “That’s about right.”

  “Wait here.”

  He disappeared through a door leading to the basement, and a minute later came up carrying a brown paper bag. From it he drew a black .25 caliber automatic. He held it under the light of the exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling, and turned it from one side to the other in his large palm. “A beauty, ain’t she?”

  Rankins took the gun, examined it closely, placing it in his own palm, testing it for size and weight. He nodded.

  “How much?”

  “Two seventy-five. Good clean piece.”

  “Can I test it?”

  “Sure.” He led the way down the basement. At the foot of the stairs a door opened to a long, narrow, windowless room, empty except for two mattresses standing upright, back-to-back, against the wall at the far end. On the surface of the mattress that faced the room, the outline of a life-size human figure had been drawn crudely with a Magic Marker pen. The upper half of the figure was riddled with holes.

  Jackson placed three bullets in the clip, handed the gun to Rankins. Standing in the center of the room with his feet spread, arms outstretched toward the mattress target, holding the automatic with both hands, Rankins squeezed off the three rounds in rapid succession. Empty cartridge cases arched out after each shot.

  He looked down at the gun in his hand and hefted it. “Okay, I’ll take it.”

  While Rankins counted out the money from his wallet, Jackson put the gun back in the paper bag. “Was up to Lima to see brother Willie last week. He say he miss yo’all.”

  Jock nodded silently and put the bills in Jackson’s palm. They went back upstairs, Jackson continuing the conversation. “Hey, how that van runnin’?”

  “Fine. Runs fine.” Six months before, Jackson had sold him the van. Too cold to ride his motorcycle in the winter, he said. Jackson had patted the side of the van. “This an ‘83. You won’t have no problem with it.”

  “Will I have to get different license plates? These are Pennsylvania plates.”

  Jackson had laughed. “Nah. Don’t you worry none about them plates. Anybody ask, you tell ‘em you got the van from some guy in Pennsylvania. You don’t have to tell them who. Y’understand what I’m sayin’.”

  “Don’t I need registration papers?”

  The big man scratched his chin. Faint amusement in his eyes. “Registration papers. Yeah. Wait here.”

  A few moments later he returned with a thick stack of tan papers held with a rubber band. He thumbed through them. “Let’s see. What I say? Eighty-three Dodge? Here we is.” He pulled out one sheet and handed it to Rankins. It was a Pennsylvania vehicle registration for a 1983 Dodge sedan. Of course, the one he sold him was a van. And the Vehicle Identification Number on the certificate was that of a car that had long since been melted down. But it was close enough.

  Now, as Jackson opened the front door, he said, “Hey, man, it none of my business but what yo’all doin’ with all them pieces? Startin’ a collection?”

  “Yeah. I’m a collector.”

  Jackson stood at the top of the porch stairs, looking at Rankins as he walked to his van clutching the brown paper bag. Finally, he turned, went back inside the house shaking his head. Rankins could hear him mutter, “Man’s spooky.”

  FOURTEEN

  Karen Vandergrif
t drove and Maharos rode shotgun in her black and white patrol car, on their way to speak to Henry Gibson’s widow. Maharos had never before worked with a female partner. Although five percent of the police officers were female, Detective Lieutenant Ed Bragg had resisted accepting women detectives until a year before. After threats by the mayor and city council to slash his already tight budget, he broke down and accepted Lucy Gage as detective third grade. Now, four women candidates who had passed all the qualifying tests were waiting for openings. Bragg pulled excuses from nowhere, in order to hold off their appointments until after he retired. When one TV newscaster called him a chauvinist, he said, “I never shoved nobody—and I don’t give a shit what the guy says.”

  Vandergrift pulled up in the driveway of the brick three-story house in a neighborhood of upper middle-class homes. Harriet Gibson answered the door and escorted them to the living room. Maharos glanced around at the gold and black wallpaper, lots of mirrors, chrome and Lucite. Gibson apparently made good money and had left his widow well off.

  Mrs. Gibson was dressed in beige slacks and a loosely fitting flowered blouse. She was in her mid-thirties, her face unlined, light brown hair pulled back to form a ponytail held by a thin, black velvet ribbon.

  Vandergrift said, “I hope we’re not keeping you from anything important.”

  “Not really. I was supposed to go to a Little Theater Group meeting, but it can wait.”

  “Detective Maharos is from the Youngstown Police Department. He’s investigating a homicide case in his district, and it appears that Mr. Gibson knew the other victim. Why don’t you tell her about it, Al.”

  Maharos barely recalled that he had given Vandergrift his first name when he introduced himself to her at the sheriff’s office. He was impressed that she remembered it. He broke away from these thoughts and explained, with little detail, that the widow of Marlon Graves, who was killed in March, had received a condolence note from Henry Gibson. “Your husband was shot a month later and we wondered if you could tell us how he knew Mr. Graves.”

  Harriet Gibson stared at the carpet for the answer. Slowly, she shook her head. “I have no idea who this Graves person is. The only thing I can think of is that he might have been a customer of Henry’s. My husband was assistant sales manager of a wholesale hardware company.”

  “Marlon Graves was a clothing salesman for Simpson’s in Akron. I don’t think he would have bought wholesale hardware. Is it possible that your husband was one of his customers?”

  “No. Henry bought all his clothes here in Canton. In fact, I did most of the shopping for his clothing. He was so busy he didn’t have much time to do it himself. If I saw something I thought would look good on him, I would either buy it and bring it home, or have him go in for a fitting.”

  Vandergrift said, “Do you have any recollection of him writing a condolence note?”

  “No. He wouldn’t have written it from home. Henry did all of his correspondence at the office. I was the only one who wrote letters at home and I didn’t write a condolence letter to anyone named Graves.”

  Maharos brought out the list of fifteen gunshot victims who had been killed on the seventh of a month. In addition to Graves, were the names of Hamberger, Horner and Burnstein. “Mrs. Gibson, look at this list and see if any of these names are familiar.”

  She ran her eyes down the list. “Burnstein. It seems I’ve heard that name before. Here’s another, George Horner, isn’t that the lawyer—“ she raised her head. “I’m sure I read about these people somewhere. I don’t know any of them. What have they got to do with Henry?”

  Maharos explained that they were all fairly recent unsolved homicides, and they were looking for any possible connection between them. They had all been well publicized because of their sensationalism and he knew it was going to be hard to find anyone who had not read about them.

  He tried another tack. “Did your husband have any social connections that did not involve you?”

  Harriet Gibson sat up rigidly. Her eyes bore through Maharos. “If you’re suggesting that he might have been unfaithful—.”

  Maharos put up a hand. He smiled. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant at all. Graves was a gambler—a heavy gambler. I don’t know how to put this question to you more delicately, but was your husband involved in any activities which might have put him into contact with gamblers, bookies, you know, that crowd.”

  She relaxed a little, although her resentment was still apparent. “Emphatically no.”

  Maharos thought she was being unduly steamed up. Vandergrift stepped in for the rescue. “Mrs. Gibson, I hope you understand that we’re trying to find any clue that might lead us to your husband’s murderer. The last thing we want to do is offend you.”

  Harriet Gibson’s composure broke down. She dropped her head and put her hand to her eyes. “I’ve been so hurt already,” she sobbed. “You have no idea how this whole thing has changed my life. Henry’s been gone, how long is it? Three months? What have you found out about who did it? Nothing! Now you come in and ask all these stupid questions. How do you expect me to feel?” She continued to sob softly, her face in her hands.

  Maharos stood up and gestured with his chin to Vandergrift. He could see they had reached the end of the line. “We’re sorry to have upset you, Mrs. Gibson. Thank you for your time.”

  Vandergrift took a card from her pocket and placed it on the coffee table in front of the weeping woman. “Here’s my card. If you think of anything that might be related to what we’ve been asking you, please call.” She patted the woman’s shoulder as they left.

  Back in the patrol car, they drove in silence for a few minutes before Vandergrift said, “Shall we ask around at the place where he worked?”

  Maharos shrugged. “I suppose so, but I’m not optimistic.”

  At the offices of Sterling Wholesale Hardware, Clarence Chambers, the sales manager checked the records of Gibson’s customers, but found no one named Graves.

  Maharos had a thought. He said, “Do you have copies of Gibson’s business correspondence?”

  Chambers said, “Yes, we’ve transferred his files to Clem Gilmore, the man who took over Henry’s job. His office is two doors down on your left. I’ll call over and tell him you’re coming.”

  Gilmore was out of the office, but his secretary was the same one who had worked for Gibson. Emma was a small, mousy woman in her fifties. She appeared a little nervous seeing the two police officers walk in.

  Maharos said, “Mr. Gibson had written a condolence note to a Mrs. Marlon Graves in Talmadge. Do you remember such a letter?”

  Emma thought for a moment. “I don’t remember it specifically. But if there were a copy of any letter such as that it would be in his personal correspondence file. I bundled them up and asked Mrs. Gibson if she wanted them. She said she didn’t, so I had them destroyed. Matter of fact, it was just about three days ago. I don’t know why I kept them so long. He’s been gone about three months now.” She looked dreamily toward the ceiling. Suddenly, she turned her head toward Maharos. “I do remember writing the letter. Wasn’t it some man who had been shot?”

  Maharos opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say a word, she jumped out of her chair and ran to the door. She called back over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

  Maharos and Vandergrift looked at each other. Vandergrift made a one-shoulder shrug. “Is that the affect you have on people? Either they start crying or run for the hills.”

  “Now you see why I’m the only flunk-out of the Dale Carnegie course.”

  Emma returned in a few minutes carrying a thick manila file folder. She dropped it on the desk triumphantly. “The janitor hadn’t gotten around to burning it yet. Good thing I thought of it.” She looked from side-to-side and covered the corner of her mouth with a hand. “Half the time, he sits down the basement with a bottle, doesn’t hear what you tell him.”

  Vandergrift said, “If it helps us find what we want, we’ll buy him a gallon of h
is favorite rotgut.”

  Emma riffled through the papers in the file. “Do you know when it would have been written?”

  Vandergrift said, “Sometime around the early part of March, this year.”

  The secretary pulled an onionskin copy out, glanced at it for a second and handed it to the deputy sheriff. “Here it is.”

  Vandergrift held the letter so Maharos could read it over her shoulder. He was exhilarated at the prospect of making some progress. But not so excited that he wasn’t aware of the faint scent of her perfume as he stood looking over her shoulder.

  The letter was dated March 10.

  “Dear Mrs. Graves,

  “I want to express my sincere sympathy on the loss of your husband. Although I knew him for a very short time, I was fond of him and was shocked to read of his tragic death. I recall that he spoke of you with great affection. I know what a loss this must mean to you.

  Sincerely,

  Hank Gibson”

  Vandergrift said, “I was hoping the letter would tell us how he came to know Graves.”

  “At least we know that it was ‘for a very short time.’ Wonder what that means.”

  Maharos asked the secretary, “Do you have any recollection of whether or not Mr. Gibson mentioned how he knew Graves?”

  “He may have said something at the time, but I can’t recall if he did.”

  “How long had you been working for Gibson?”

  “Two years. Ever since Mr. Gibson was promoted Assistant Sales Manager. Before that I was secretary for Mr. Chambers. He had the job and then was promoted to Sales Manager. They left me behind.” She sniffed derisively.

  “Do you have any idea where or when he might have met Marlon Graves?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that ever since you asked about the letter. I’m afraid I don’t know. Did you ask Mrs. Gibson whether he was a personal friend?”

  Vandergrift told her briefly about their interview with Harriet Gibson.

  Maharos said, “How would you have gotten Mr. Graves’ address?”

  Emma thought for a moment. “Mr. Graves lived in Akron, didn’t he?”