Third Victim

by Lawrence Kelter

  “Caught you in the act,” he said with a grin. “Am I going to have to catalogue the entire inventory to ensure that nothing goes missing?”

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said with large eyes. “I’m dying to see how I look in this.”

  “For real?”

  “Yes, for real. Turn your back for a minute.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course I am,” I said, responding with a smirk. “Dude, you’ve got to learn when I’m pulling your chain.”

  He puffed out his cheeks. “That may take a little time—you’re not always easy to read. So look, I haven’t come across anything evidence worthy.”

  “Me neither. Did you bring an evidence collection kit like I told you to?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. Swab the bathroom sink and drain. Grab hair samples—anything that could be used for a good DNA match. It might be the only way for us to positively ID the deceased.”

  “Or rule him out.”

  “Correct, or rule him out,” I repeated. I heard a fierce rapping on the door. “Who could that be?”

  Lido shrugged. “Want me to get it?” he asked in a protective manner.

  Ah, isn’t that sweet? He’s worried about me because I’m a girl. “No worries. My friend, Mr. Glock and I are more than capable of taking care of ourselves. Hit the bathroom sink and don’t forget to use gloves. Who knows what this fashion-crazed little guy was into.”

  “Yes, Mom,” he said and pulled a pair of blue gloves from his pocket.

  Needless to say, he deserved a nice, straight-up flip of the bird and I provided one. The furious pounding on the door continued unabated. I cast the silk scarf aside and hurried to the door. Okay, okay. Keep your pants on.

  Truman Capote had returned from the dead and was standing at the door replete with geek chic glasses, a polka dot bowtie, and a big-brimmed fedora, which was accented with an orchid and teal-colored ribbon. He was a mere thimble of a man, no more than five foot two or three. He had delicate facial features with a tiny dollop of a nose nestled between topaz eyes that were set off by the brightly colored hatband. “What the hell are you doing in Leonard’s apartment?” he demanded well before I could utter a perfunctory yes?

  My shield was already out for display, but I held it up in front of his face. “NYPD. And you are?”

  “I’m Ira Bascom, flatfoot, and you haven’t answered my question.”

  Flatfoot? Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, is it? “What’s your relationship to Mr. Koufax?” I said without allowing my blood pressure to elevate a single digit.

  He became irate. “We’re friends, goddamn it. Now what’s going on?”

  I was about to say “police investigation” but never got the opportunity.

  “Is he—oh no.” Bascom gasped and covered his mouth.

  I hopped six inches backward, narrowly avoiding the path of his vomit.

  “Why don’t you come in?”

  He nodded appreciatively, stepping over his spew as he entered the apartment, all the while fighting back tears. “Please tell me, is he all right?”

  Lido had no doubt heard the commotion and came running to my rescue. I introduced him to Bascom before continuing. “There was a homicide this morning, Mr. Bascom, but we haven’t been able to make a positive identification.”

  He was already holding his forehead when he closed his eyes to deal with the misery. “I can do that,” he bravely offered.

  Lido and I looked at each other knowingly. “I’m afraid it may not be that easy,” I said and sat down on the sofa next to him. “You see, a bomb was detonated at the chabad where he worked this morning. Three were killed, but one male victim …” I took a deep breath. “Well, you see, the victim’s face was badly damaged and is unrecognizable.”

  Bascom gasped as tears rushed forward, and used his pocket square to dab at his tears. “Oh dear God.” He turned to me with great distress on his face, appealing to me for a shred of hope. “But you’re not absolutely sure that it’s Lenny?”

  “The victim’s ID indicated that it was him. However …”

  I watched as the little blood left in his face drained away. “Then that’s it,” he said sorrowfully. “Lenny is dead.”

  “Not necessarily, Mr. Bascom,” Lido began. “There have been many documented cases where identification of the victim was not completely obvious.”

  “But the ID, why would someone else have it?”

  “There are a few plausible explanations.” I didn’t feel it necessary to go into my conspiracy theory. After all, I had absolutely no proof that I was right. “Suffice it to say that it may not be him, and that’s why we’re in the process of garnering evidence that will help us establish unmistakable identification. I wish I could tell you more, but I just can’t at the moment.”

  Bascom twisted his neck and I heard his vertebrae pop as he tried to release tension. “You said that Lenny’s face is unrecognizable.”

  “That’s right,” Lido replied.

  Bascom seemed deep in thought as he turned to me and ventured, “What about the rest of him?”

  Chapter Four

  Translation: friends meant lovers. Bascom never actually said that he and Koufax were lovers, but he told us that the victim had a few identifying moles on the inside of his thigh that not even a very close platonic friend would be aware of. In either case, he agreed to accompany us to the morgue and attempt to help us with the ID. A couple of hours had passed since we’d left the crime scene and I was thrilled to have an assist of any kind. The ME was not going to accept Bascom’s mole check as legal proof of identification. I, however, wanted all the ammunition I could muster before notifying next of kin.

  Bascom waited outside the morgue while I went in and spoke to Tully, the ME. Dr. Glenaster Tully was a tall Jamaican, with shortly cropped nappy hair. He had a thick accent, so thick, in fact, that if he sang “Buffalo Soldier,” with your eyes closed you’d swear you were listening to Bob Marley. “Cha-lee-see,” he said greeting me in his harmonious voice. “What’ve you done now, mon? Every available autopsy table in my morgue has one of your bodies lying upon it.”

  “That’s the way I roll, doc. All or nothing.”

  “I read your notes, and after a preliminary look at the deceased, I’m sure that you’re right—the explosion alone could not have caused the extensive damage done to Leonard Koufax’s face. As you pointed out, there was no debris in the vicinity or bomb fragments large enough to cause that kind of damage. Leonard Koufax was beaten with a blunt object until his face and dentition were completely destroyed.”

  “Postmortem, I hope.”

  He closed his eyes, expressing remorse. “I’m afraid not, Chalice. He was poisoned, but that’s not what killed him.”

  “Poisoned?”

  “The victim was in the initial stages of ethylene glycol poisoning when he died. His murderer probably wasn’t aware that ethylene glycol is a slow killer.”

  “Antifreeze, huh?”

  Tully nodded. “It’s a bad way to go, mon. Depression, vomiting, seizures … pretty nasty, and like I said, it’s not a quick death. Start to finish you’re looking at a solid three days. The murderer was inexperienced. Whoever did this must’ve assumed that the poison would work right away.”

  “How is it administered?”

  “It’s got a sweet taste. Animals poison themselves all the time. They come across a puddle of antifreeze that’s leaked from a radiator and … Too bad the furry little critters can’t read the caution labels.”

  “I’m not talking about furry little critters, Tully. How do you force a human to imbibe it?”

  “You’re not listening, Chalice. You mix up a batch of cosmopolitans or apple martinis and you spike it with the antifreeze. It’s pretty simple. The only hang-up is—”

  “That you’ve got to immobilize the victim for three days until they croak.”

  “Exactly, but like I said—”

  “We’re dealing with an amateur. W
hoever did this figured the victim would expire on the spot and he didn’t.” I huffed before continuing, “So this is what I need—I have a gent outside who claims that Koufax had identifying moles on his inner thigh. There’s no point sending this guy over the edge—I want the face completely and thoroughly covered before we bring him in. We brought DNA evidence from the victim’s apartment to test, but this will give us some quick direction. After all, the DNA analysis will take a solid two days.”

  “Sure thing, Chalice. Give me two minutes to properly drape the body and then bring him in.”

  I counted to one hundred twenty Mississippi and brought Bascom into the morgue. Tully had done a good job of covering our victim’s face, but the cadaver on the adjacent autopsy table was in the process of being stitched together like a sock puppet and was not what I’d call a pleasing sight. I snapped my fingers and pointed at the other table. One of Tully’s staff stopped what he was doing and quickly covered Raggedy Andy.

  Bascom was looking thoroughly anemic and was sweating profusely as he made his way the length of the morgue. “This is a new experience for me,” he said unhappily. “One I hope I never have to repeat.”

  “I know it’s terrible. We really appreciate your cooperation.”

  I motioned to Tully and he carefully rolled up the modesty sheet and tucked it in the inguinal crease. The cadaver’s legs and thighs were exposed but not its twig and berries. He switched on the powerful overhead lamp and positioned it over the groin. “Please have a look,” he said.

  Bascom took a moment to dislodge the lump in his throat and then approached the body, got a distance close enough to be considered intimate, and took a long time before informing us of his decision. Before he had spoken a word, the triumphant look on his face told me that he didn’t believe the corpse was Koufax.

  Chapter Five

  “The DNA results will conclusively tell us if the victim was or wasn’t your son, but for the moment the information we received from Ira Bascom is encouraging.” I watched the expressions on the faces of Lenny Koufax’s parents.

  The color returned to Ms. Koufax’s face. “Oh, thank God,” she said as she exhaled a huge sigh, gazed up at heaven, and whispered a short prayer. “How soon will it be before we know for certain?”

  “In approximately forty-eight hours,” Lido replied. “That’s the fastest possible turnaround on DNA analysis.”

  I expected Sam Koufax to show signs of relief, but he most certainly did not. “This is what comes from living an unnatural life style,” he said angrily. “A fagella is the one to determine whether my boy is dead or alive based on his intimate knowledge of my son’s private parts.” He shuddered. “He could’ve had girls by the dozen, my Lenny, but no … he didn’t want a woman. My son had to take up with men.”

  Esther stood up and stomped her foot. “Stop it! Do you hear what you’re saying? The detective just told you that your son could still be alive, but instead of being overjoyed, you’re complaining? What’s wrong with you? We need to cling to every last shred of hope.”

  “What’s wrong with me? There’s nothing wrong with me. I married a woman and fathered a son like a man is supposed to. I don’t fornicate with men in bath houses.”

  “And neither does your son,” she snapped. “You’re being ignorant, Sam, and it sounds as if you’re more concerned about what others might say than if your son is alive. This can’t be true—such words from my husband? Never!” She turned to me. “How do we find him?” she asked anxiously. “What can we do to help?”

  Lido turned to me, knowing that I was going to lead the interview. It was his first time to the rodeo and I saw in his eyes that he was astutely interested in learning the process.

  “Let’s start with the obvious question—are you aware of anyone who might want to harm your son?”

  “How can I answer a question like that?” Sam barked. “My son associated with deviants. Who knows how these people think.”

  “You’re not helping, Sam,” Esther shrieked as her face grew flush.

  “Let’s try to focus on specifics, shall we? Can you think of any individuals my partner and I should interview? Were there any recent arguments your son had that you’re aware of?”

  “He’s a very private man,” Sam replied, no longer sounding indignant. “He knew that I didn’t approve of his lifestyle, so rather than being open with us about his relationships he…” Sam’s head dropped and he squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears. Esther stroked the back of his head. “No. I don’t know who would want to harm my boy. He didn’t have a hurtful bone in his body.” He rubbed his eyes and then stood. “Excuse me, would you? I need a moment.”

  “Of course.” I watched him walk off. “Is he going to be all right?”

  Esther nodded unpersuasively. “I know you can’t tell from what you heard, but he loves his son very much. What you heard before, the resentment of Lenny being gay … that was my husband’s own guilt you heard. My boy waited years and years before telling us because he knew how Sam felt about homosexuality. So instead of opening up to us, he kept his secret bottled inside until he was ready to burst.”

  “That’s a very common scenario,” Lido advised.

  She shrugged. “Would I be happier with a daughter-in-law and a flock of grandchildren? Yes, of course, but that doesn’t mean I love my son any less. He’s a good boy, a hardworking boy. He works two jobs you know.”

  “Acting and the kitchen job at the chabad?”

  She nodded. “That’s right. He was never lazy. He made a few dollars preparing breakfast to make ends meet while he continued to pursue his dream of making it as a stage actor.” She became introspective and I could see that she was battling with her emotions. “No. I won’t cry,” she said. “I’ll stay strong and you’ll bring me good news when the lab results come back.”

  “I certainly hope to, Mrs. Koufax. I’d like nothing more. Let’s continue. So you can’t think of anyone your son didn’t get along with?”

  “People he didn’t get along with? There were plenty. Being gay didn’t make my son a wimp. There were lots of ignorant people who hurt him with their nasty comments, and Lenny gave it right back to them in spades. He was like the little dog with the big bark … but someone so angry they’d try to kill him? I refuse to believe that.”

  “Sometimes situations flare up for the most absurd reasons. Tempers spark and rage out of control. It’s better that we leave no stone unturned, so if anyone comes to mind …”

  She closed her eyes while she searched her mind. “Bernie Sadock,” she blurted. “He always rode Lenny for no reason, even before my boy came out of the closet. ‘You’re light in the loafers,’ he would say. I once heard him call Lenny a ‘fancy boy.’ He’s a bully, and always has been, an accountant who doesn’t know how to keep his big mouth shut. Out in public he’d shout across the street, the ignoramus. He showed no concern for my son’s feelings whatsoever.”

  I sympathized. “The world is full of morons like that, Mrs. Koufax.”

  “Where can we find him?” Lido asked as he flipped to a clean sheet in his notepad.

  “He’s not in the neighborhood anymore. I heard he just bought a house on Fort Hamilton Parkway. Drives a foreign car, the big shot.”

  “We’ll find him,” Lido said and verified the spelling of his name.

  Sam Koufax returned carrying a tray with four glass teacups. “A hot drink will sooth everyone’s nerves,” he said. “Swee-Touch-Nee,” he boasted. “The best!”

  Lido and I both preferred the bean, but the steam billowing out of the mugs was inviting, and I knew that the offering was an apology of sorts for the words that Sam was not proud of. “Thank you,” I said and reached for a mug.

  “Wait,” he cautioned. “Not without a cube of sugar. That’s all right, I hope?” He looked up, waiting for my response. I nodded, and he plopped a sugar cube into my cup. “My parents used to place the sugar cube on their tongues, but I prefer it this way. Besides, it makes it diffi
cult to talk.”

  Lido remained silent while I sampled the brew. My cheeks rose. “Oh, I like that. Thank you.”

  He pointed at Lido. “What about the shtarker over here?”

  “Shtarker?” Lido asked.

  “It’s a compliment,” Esther said, her cheeks rising slightly. “It’s Yiddish for strong and brave.”

  Neither Sam nor Esther had any real evidence of acts of heroism, but Lido projected himself in that way: stout and earnest.

  “What about it, Lido?” I began with a smirk. “Is the big, strong detective man enough for a cube of sugar in his tea?”

  He raised two fingers. “Make mine a double.” His quip brought them grins. He took a sip and then we were back at it. “We were just discussing a person of interest, Bernie Sadock, Mr. Koufax. Your wife said that he was especially cruel to your son.”

  He turned to his wife with puzzlement on his face. “Bernie?”

  “Yes. Bernie,” she replied.

  “He’s a big klutz, but a murderer? He’s a CPA, for God’s sake, and he’s got a lot of very important clients—actors, entertainers, and politicians, I hear. He’s well-to-do.”

  “They have to follow up on every lead, Sam,” she emphasized.

  “Okay, go talk to Bernie, but the man’s a coward. He’s got a big mouth and no courage. He’s afraid of his own shadow.”

  “Timid folks are capable of committing homicides too, especially those who feel they have something to prove. We’ll talk to him right after we finish up here,” I said. “As long as we can get a hold of him. Who else?”

  The couple took a few moments to think but came up empty.

  “Your son works in Manhattan. Does he ever talk about his work or friends from there?”

  “He talks about the theater all the time,” Esther cooed, “and the celebrities he bumps into at Sardi’s.”

  Sardi’s, huh? I was surprised that someone who had to work two jobs to make ends meet frequented such an expensive restaurant.

  “They have an actors’ menu, you know,” Esther informed us. “If you have a Screen Actors Guild card, you can eat there for practically nothing.”