Thrilling Thirteen

by Ponzo, Gary

  I had relayed Twain’s remarks to my new partners and they insisted that I enter behind them.

  “Department of Health,” Hanley announced after knocking three times. He was on the left side of the door. Holeran and I were on the right. He knocked again. “Hello, hello. Anyone home? We’re here to check out a complaint.” A nervous moment passed in silence. Hanley raised his eyebrows. You can only stand in a combat position in the hallway of a dimly lit tenement for so long without looking stupid. The sound of shattering glass sent us into action.

  “Gluck!” Holeran peeled off and charged down the stairs to back up the basketball star. Hanley turned and faced the door. He put his two hundred twenty pounds into it and took it off the frame.

  He took the lead. I was right at his butt. Again, it was nothing like Lido’s. We stole into the apartment. All was quiet. There wasn’t much to it, a two-roomer with a small eat-in kitchen. The place reeked of ammonia and something else that I was sure could peel paint. I could see the windows immediately upon entering. The fire escape was visible through one of them. No broken glass.

  We moved toward the window. Down on the street, Gluck and Holeran had someone in custody. I knew in an instant that it wasn’t Clovin. We had accidentally rousted Clovin’s next-door neighbor, likely a paranoid street dealer. We’d get nothing on this guy either. I was betting that it would be your typical flush and flee proposition.

  Hanley and I began casing the apartment. Clovin’s bedroom was our first port of call. “Sweet, merciful Jesus,” I heard Hanley call out from the bedroom. “Chalice, oh my God. Come take a look.”

  Funny, one picture is worth a thousand words, but a wall of pictures could be summarized in two. “Holy shit!” It was all there in front of us. The faces of Ellen Redner and Samantha Harris were the ones I recognized, but there were others. No doubt, they too had met with the same unhappy ending. Twain had been, forgive the play on words, dead on.

  He had found Redner and Harris through the newspaper. I took a moment to read the articles Clovin had clipped and taped to the walls. Samantha Harris’ photo had appeared in the Sunday Times, a colorful piece about a mature woman in a business dominated by young bucks. Colorful? Yes, as in blood red. The byline was Software Sam.

  Ellen Redner had received an honorarium for her charitable work with Children of the South Bronx. These were special women: intelligent and strong. Was that it, a woman’s place was in the home, dutifully by her man’s side? Was death the price for their independence? Was it supposed to be mine?

  There were three others. The newspaper clippings about these women were posthumous, obituaries from local papers. These three were the fruits of Clovin’s labor rather than his research. I checked the dates. They were all prior to Redner and Harris. Twain was right again. Clovin’s first three homicides had been too subtle. The messages and gunshot victims had been his way of getting attention. I’d say he’d accomplished what he had set out to do.

  Hilary Glenn apparently deserved honorable mention. Several clippings were set off apart from the rest, arranged in a line on Clovin’s night table. She met his requirements and then some: rich, successful, and in the public eye, not exactly the demure or homespun type. I cursed myself for not having seen it coming.

  Hanley bounded into the room. He had worked up a sweat tossing the other room. “I found the stuff he used to build those homemade silencers: tennis balls, steel wool, PVC pipe, hacksaw, and these, thank God.” Wearing latex gloves, Hanley held a weapon in each hand. “A Feather 9mm RAV and a MAC-10. Better in my hands than his.”

  “Big amen. We’d better alert Lido and Ambler. They’re chomping at the bit, waiting to hear from us.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” He lumbered out of the room purposefully. We had our man; now all we had to do was catch the son of a bitch.

  I turned back to the wall of death. This time, it really got to me. Was Twain right about this too? Had Clovin done all of this just to get my attention? There were five already dead, likely six. Hilary Glenn’s chances of making it to the Senate were looking extremely remote, distant in fact.

  The images on the wall hit me in the gut. What kind of cop was I? I needed answers and I needed them now. I had to stop this bastard. I didn’t know why the perp had made it personal and it was killing me. Damn it! Why hadn’t I forced Twain to tell me what he knew? I had been in such a hurry to nab Clovin that I forgot the first rule of good detection: Know the perp and know what he’s thinking in order to know what he’s planning. I had acted too quickly and now all I could do was guess.

  I pulled on my gloves and began going through Clovin’s stuff. The first drawer was empty except for a metal container of Altoids breath mints. There were blotter squares within it, probably tabs of LSD, a box full of Mad Hatters. How horrifyingly appropriate.

  The end table’s top drawer contained a folded side-by-side frame which I opened. Facing me was one new image and one that was familiar. The first photo was that of a young girl. She looked about eleven or twelve, dark hair, a bit on the frail side. It was an old picture; I could tell by the yellowed border around the photograph and the period dress the child was wearing. Who is she? I wondered. The other half contained another newspaper clipping. The headline read: “New Year’s Blast Avoided.” It was my photo, taken as I led Gamal Haddad, the New Year’s Eve terrorist, into custody. I have to say that the picture captured it all—the face, the eyes, and the take-no-crap expression; everything the perp needed to know. For some reason, I had become the object of his fatal desire, doomed for my accomplishments. Or was it for what I represented: strength, success, and independence in a man’s world? Or was he just a homicidal maniac?

  Now that we were sure who the killer was, we’d be able to get a ton of information from the intelligence community. The prospects of finding Clovin were good, but I had learned that there were no guarantees in life. Our files were full of wanted perps—horrible, vile monsters that had never been apprehended. That said, Zachary Clovin would be brought to justice. I give you my guarantee.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I found Ishmael Gray at the Nassau County Correctional Facility in East Meadow, New York. East Meadow was a bustling little suburb not far from the oft referred to Levittown. It looked pretty, but the traffic was as bad as it is in Manhattan. I thought about the house-in-the-suburbs proposition that Ma was pushing on me. It just seemed to me that the suburbs should be more tranquil than this. Strip mall after strip mall, massive assisted-living communities for seniors, and a big-ass correctional facility right smack dab in the center. That boat was looking more and more like the right decision all the time.

  I had donned my most unflattering pantsuit in anticipation of my visit to the correctional facility. There’s no point in describing it. It was just blah, a present from my cousin in Staten Island. God only knows why I hadn’t given it away. It was one of those “Softer side of Sears” getups. In any case, it was closer to a burlap bag than anything else I owned.

  The other convicts seemed unaware of Gray’s presence as he rolled his wheelchair into the visitor’s room. Gray’s hair was light brown, parted in the center and grown out to his shoulders. Inactivity had cultivated a large potbelly, upon which his folded hands rested peacefully. “Gray, Ishmael Gray?” I asked.

  Gray replied without opening his eyes. “Used to be. Now I’m R22861.” His eyes sprang open without squinting. I saw at once that he was blind. “Either way, I’m the man you’re looking for.”

  I’m Detective Chalice.”

  “Nice to have a female visitor even if I can hardly make you out.”

  “How bad is your vision?”

  “I can see shadows, just enough to keep out of harm’s way. But I guess you’re not here for a second opinion on your outfit.” Gray took a couple of playful exaggerated sniffs. “That’s not polyester, is it?”

  Shit! He has me dead to rights. “Yeah, yeah it is.”

  Gray winked. He wasn’t looking at me when he did, but th
e wink was meant for me. “You don’t seem like the polyester type.” You see, even a blind man knows. “So what can I help you with, Detective?”

  “What can you tell us about Zachary Clovin?”

  I could see surprise register on Gray’s face. “Ooo-wee, Old Zack the Wack. That crazy son of a bitch, what’s he done?”

  “He’s a person of interest in a multiple homicide investigation.”

  Gray bunched his chin and began rocking back and forth in his chair. “Multiple homicides, my, oh my. Always knew something like this would happen once he got out. Military discipline’s the only thing that kept that crazy fool in check. He was stoned half the time and off showering the rest. Don’t quite know how he served out all those years, and as an engineer, no less.”

  “We contacted Sergeant Keith McKenna, your former CO. He said that if anyone could tell us about Clovin, it would be you.”

  “Sure, we were close, close to dead.” Gray’s head lowered. “It’s a shame a man has to lose so much before he straightens out.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “There are only two categories of lifers in the U.S. Army. You’ve got your Academy boys, ROTC and such, and you got your lost souls, the stupid asses, and the don’t-know-what-to-do-with-their-lives types. I was one of those. Zachary Clovin and I were two of the sorriest pieces of flop in the outfit. I was on the run, just a stupid kid who thought the Army would hide me from the police. See, I murdered a man and thought the uniform would make me invisible.” A tear rolled down his cheek. “It was a bad deal. What I did was justified, but the long years of running and hiding turned the facts into mush. A good lawyer could’ve straightened things out. Instead, I spent twenty years in the military. The police picked me up three months after my discharge. Twenty years of hiding and wasting my life,” he stated remorsefully. Gray quickly wiped the tear from his cheek. “Crap. You didn’t come to hear about me anyway. Wacky Zack and I were volunteers in an army experiment. I’ve been paid off by the government to keep my mouth shut, but look where I am today, blind and crippled, doing life in the middle of suburbia. Don’t figure I owe no one any allegiance.”

  I placed my hand on Gray’s shoulder. “Tell us about it.”

  Gray turned his head toward me. “Been a long time, Detective Chalice. Can’t remember the last time I felt a woman’s comforting touch. You’d better take your hand off my shoulder, though. Ain’t good for me to be seen this way.” I understood the implication and complied immediately. “Much obliged, ma’am. They did LSD testing on us. They thought LSD could be used for brainwashing and to disorient the enemy. Clovin and I spent three years in wonderland.” Gray chuckled. “I’ll be damned if the time didn’t pass like it was ten minutes. It took me a long time to shake it. LSD ain’t addicting like heroin or cocaine but you can sure take a liking to it, especially if the real world ain’t a happy place for you to be.”

  Gray reversed his wheels until he was facing us again. “Clovin never shook it. He couldn’t get it from the army anymore, so he went off base and bought it. When he couldn’t find any, he’d swallow anything that came out of a test tube: BZ, psilocybin, mescaline . . . anything he could get his hands on. Clovin worked on engineering projects all over the world. He must have experimented with all kinds of shit. Can you imagine the sorry-ass construction that sick son of a bitch is responsible for?”

  “I guess he wasn’t as strong as you were.” I didn’t know Gray’s story, not really. Everyone in the joint had a sob story and his was just one more. Despite all I knew, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the guy. A cop has got to be tough, but she’s also got to listen and have an ounce of carefully placed compassion.

  “He was strong,” Gray continued. “He was damn strong. Whatever I was running from, the ghosts that were chasing Zack had him running twice as fast. Wouldn’t you after you burnt your family alive?”

  I gasped. I suppose it was the long pause that tipped Gray as to our surprise. “Well that’s it, isn’t it; you’ve caught up with him the same way the law caught up with me?” Gray read the silence perfectly. “Oh no. Zack’s done something else, hasn’t he?”

  Yes, all that and then some.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The LIE was bumper to bumper and it was close to six when I emerged from the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. My cell phone rang the second I hit the first traffic light.

  “Stephanie Chalice, you put in your papers and didn’t tell me or something? I haven’t heard from you in days.”

  “Funny, Ambler, very funny. Whazzup?”

  “I need you down here at headquarters right now. I need Lido too. Ah . . . you’re not together, are you?”

  “Don’t bust balls.”

  “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” He chuckled. “Is he?”

  “Yes,” I fired. “I just nailed him six times and we were on the clock the whole time. Actually, I’m just about to pick him up.”

  “That’s very nice, but why the hell are you telling me?” Ambler asked. As if he didn’t know.

  “I thought I’d tell you, so you wouldn’t have to spend time coaxing information out of Lido.”

  “I’m tempted to tell you off, but I’ve got more important things on my mind,” Ambler huffed. “We’ve got a big development. Can’t wait to show you.” His voice was almost shaky with excitement.

  “Give me a hint, Ambler.” The bastard. He had already hung up.

  I picked up Lido and we hustled down Broadway. Twenty-six Federal Plaza came into view.

  I stopped in the ladies’ room before meeting with Ambler. I fussed with the polyester frock, cinching the belt to make it look less frumpy. If a blind man had something to say, imagine what Ambler would come up with. I had buttoned the collar to the neck for my trip to the correctional facility. I looked in the mirror and loosened it. I had misplaced my Saint Christopher medal. Spreading the collar reminded me that I’d have to look for it when I got home.

  I also took the opportunity to call Twain. I was dying to talk to him, but Ambler’s news had to come first. I told Twain that I’d call him the moment I was free. He sounded disappointed, but what could I do?

  Ambler and Lido were swilling down old coffee. It smelled like something they had filched from the forensics lab. The old boy’s club was in session when I arrived. The two of them clammed up when I walked in. “You look like the cat that ate the canary.”

  Ambler jumped off the desk he had been sitting on. He appeared moderately nervous, which was a sure sign of guilt. “This way,” Ambler instructed. The fact that the boys broke up their conversation so quickly only confirmed that they had been talking about yours truly. It didn’t take any great investigator to figure that out. What I wanted to know was, who had been asking the questions?

  I whispered into Lido’s ear, “God help you if you and Ambler were discussing what I think you were discussing.”

  “I’ll take the fifth,” he replied.

  Ambler hustled us into the elevator and up to the forensics lab. It was filled with techs, gadgets, and gizmos. Two huge air scrubbers dominated the ceiling, keeping the lab odor-free. A proper-looking woman whose nametag read Doris Fuchs approached Ambler. “I’m set up in the back,” she told him. Fuchs looked like she was pushing sixty with her dyed auburn hair and clawing perfume, which, believe it or not, I placed immediately. My Aunt Connie had always worn Shalimar. She was gone, but the scent of her perfume would linger in my mind forever.

  Ambler ushered us toward the back of the lab where he finally made the introductions. “Doris Fuchs, this is Detective Chalice and Detective Lido, two of New York’s finest.”

  “Hello,” she replied with all the warmth of a seasoned mortician.

  Ambler stood next to us. I grabbed his ear. “New York’s finest. I ought to kick your ass. What were you and Lido jawing about?”

  “Pay attention to the technician, Chalice,” Ambler said. “This is much more important than your alleged puppy love conspiracy.” I snarled at Ambler
and reluctantly followed his instructions.

  Doris Fuchs was waiting patiently for our attention. I guess she figured quitting time was going to come around one way or another. “I’ve got two microscopes set up. I’d like you to take a peek into each of them.” With that, Fuchs stepped aside, allowing us access to her experiment.

  “After you,” Lido offered. He had a playful smile on his face. I shot him a scowl as I maneuvered past him. This was far from over.

  I bent over the first microscope. There were brown and gray spots on the slide. Nothing biological, just spots. The second was identical. I glanced up excitedly. “Gus, you’ve got to see this.”

  Lido checked the first slide and then turned to me with a forlorn look. “What?” He shrugged.

  “Nice-looking spots. This reminds me of a Daffy Duck cartoon I saw when I was a kid. You put water on those spots and they grow into Martians, right?” I looked up at Fuchs. She had no sense of humor at all.

  “The point is that they’re identical,” Fuchs advised.

  Got it. Next?

  “Breakdown by chemical composition and spectrographic analysis confirm the same.”

  “Herbert, what the hell are we looking at?” I fired.

  Ambler rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Doris. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Nice meeting the two of you,” she offered. I checked my watch. It was past five—Fuchs was probably late for her canasta game.

  Fuchs squinted at me disdainfully before walking off. “Nice dress,” she scoffed.

  Why, you . . .

  “Guess you got yours,” Ambler blurted before propping himself up on a nearby windowsill.

  Yeah, kiss my . . .

  I could see lower Manhattan behind him. The sun had set. The evening skyline was magnificent. It helped to calm me down.

  Ambler cleared his throat before he began. “The slides were made from residual material found with the footprints that were lifted from the tramcar and—” Ambler raised his eyebrows, heightening his sense of the dramatic.