The Cinco de Mayo Murder

by Lee Harris

“Nothing. His parents simply wrote that he decided to drop out of school and pursue other endeavors—those are the words they used—and they hoped this would not prejudice his possible readmission at a later time. It's a carefully worded letter. I almost have the feeling a lawyer helped them write it. I called the last phone number for the Millmans, but it's been changed.”

  “I'll see what I can do to find him,” I said.

  “I also looked into the fellow who graduated and was never heard from again, Martin McHugh. There's nothing in the records that would indicate a problem with the college, so I called an old friend who knew him. He said Marty just didn't relate to reunions and sports, and since he didn't love Rimson, he's never written a check.”

  “Did your friend have a phone number for McHugh?”

  “Got it right here.” He read off a number with a familiar area code.

  “He's in New York?” I said.

  “Lives and works there. I think he's in broadcasting or television or some such.”

  “I'll call him tomorrow. Looks like we're doing pretty well here.” I told him I had spoken to Barry Woodson.

  “Barry, right. He practices law.”

  “Yes, and he thought you might be able to help me.” “We're in touch from time to time. Well, that's all I've got for you tonight. I'll make some more phone calls and let you know what I find out.”

  The whereabouts of Martin McHugh had turned out to be simple and straightforward, not a hint of mystery about it. He had graduated and put his college days behind him.

  Jack had been making coffee as I spoke to Herbert Fallon, and I could smell it when I got off the phone. We sat in our usual places in the family room, the file between us. I opened it and showed him the sketch of the dorm corridor and all the information I had received that morning from Dean Hershey.

  “The guy sounds very cooperative,” Jack said. “This is nice. And he got it to you fast.”

  “He knew Heinz and he wants to know what happened on that mountain.”

  “Who just called?”

  I explained and then told him what I'd learned during the day about the young men on that corridor twenty years ago. “And my big mystery isn't a mystery anymore. He's alive and well and living in New York. He just doesn't send checks to Rimson.”

  “Not everyone does. In big universities, only a small percentage of graduates ever contribute. They make their money from the handful of financially successful alumni who have a conscience—or want to be remembered as big givers. Sounds like you've had a busy day.”

  “Very busy. You were lucky to get fed tonight. It's just that I got hungry myself.”

  “Glad to hear it. So you've got a guy on that corridor who lived in Phoenix and never came back to Rimson after Heinz's accident. Sounds promising.”

  “Except I don't know where he is. Herb Fallon is going to try to locate him. I've been lucky so far, finding a dean who knew Heinz and then this Professor Fallon. He's quite a character: refers to himself as a bully—which he sounds like—and says his wife thinks he's a pussycat.”

  Jack gave me the grin. “It's the only way she can stay married to him. You probably think I'm a pushover, too.”

  “Well. Only sometimes.” I told him about Herb Fallon's description of Heinz and the mysterious stranger.

  “That's pretty thin. Even if Fallon is convinced the stranger wasn't a student or professor at Rimson, that doesn't exclude the community outside the college. The guy could have been from a church or a local radio station or someplace in town where Gruner was trying to get a part-time job. Fallon made it seem sub rosa, but more likely it was just a meeting of two people who had something to say to each other.”

  “I'll see where it fits when I learn more,” I said noncommittally. Jack often pooh-poohs some of my unusual findings, but in his own work he treats such information more seriously.

  “What I think you're on to is the lack of a change of clothes and transportation to the mountain. Somebody drove Gruner there and then disappeared, probably with another backpack or suitcase. Doesn't mean he did anything to Gruner. He may have panicked when Gruner fell down the mountain and just took off. But this missing man is the key to what happened.”

  “I hope Herb Fallon gets back to me with the Phoenix guy's address and phone number. In the meantime, I'll call Martin McHugh in the morning, the one I thought was missing for twenty years but seems to be alive and working in New York.”

  “Home of missing persons.”

  “I wonder if the other man could have been Herb Fallon.” Jack laughed. “Now you're starting to sound like your jaded, suspicious husband.”

  “Wish I were as good a cook.”

  “It'll come,” Jack said. “We're not married ten years yet.”

  I lingered over the Times with my last cup of coffee after Jack and Eddie were gone on Wednesday morning. Then I sat back, the cup empty, the world news folded to the editorial page. As I sat thinking, not of the news but of the Heinz Gruner case, I realized I had all but given up the idea that Heinz had committed suicide. It wasn't completely out of the question. He might have jumped off the path without warning, even with a friend standing nearby, helpless to stop him. But I didn't think so. And in making that decision, I had accomplished all that Mrs. Gruner wanted, the knowledge that her son's death had been something other than suicide. I was sure that murder had never entered her mind, but it had certainly entered mine. And I would not disregard the mysterious stranger. Now that I knew about him, I could ask the other former students if they had knowledge of this person.

  I cleaned up the kitchen, wiping up my son's crumbs, and opened my notebook to the page with Martin McHugh's phone number. I never call people at the very beginning of the business day. I give them a chance to be late, to grab a cup of coffee, to talk to fellow workers, and finally to sit at their desk to start their day. Mr. McHugh had another ten minutes coming.

  The phone rang about eight minutes later.

  “Herb Fallon here.”

  “Good morning.”

  “I had a busy night after we talked. I've been trying to find Steven Millman, our friend from Phoenix who left Rimson and never came back.”

  “Yes,” I said, hoping I didn't sound too eager.

  “I talked to his mother last night.”

  “Really? Is she still in Phoenix?”

  “Yes, she is, still in the same house but with a new number.”

  “Did she give you a number for Steve?”

  “Not only did she not give me a number, she acted pretty cagey when I asked her for it. I tried to make like I was an old friend who'd lost touch, but she wouldn't budge. Finally she asked for my number and said she'd see if she could find him—those were her words—and if she did, she'd let him know I was trying to reach him. It doesn't sound too promising. If he's told her not to give out his number, or if she really doesn't know where her son is, I think we have a problem.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “I wonder if he's changed his name.”

  “That's a pretty big step.”

  “Not if you're trying to disappear. And it certainly looks as though that's what he's done.”

  Fallon muttered a few words of agreement. Then he said, “Have you talked to McHugh yet?”

  “I was just about to call when the phone rang.”

  “McHugh might know where Millman is. I think they were friends. The truth is, most of us on that corridor that year were at least friendly toward each other. Some of us became lifelong friends; others just remained good acquaintances. I'd like to know what happened to Millman.”

  “Maybe his mother will call you back.”

  “And maybe one of us'll find out where he is through another channel. Let me know how your conversation with Marty McHugh goes.”

  “I will. And thanks for calling.”

  I decided to ask Jack later to see if Steven Millman's name came up on his computer as a felon or having been arrested. I suspected it wouldn't, but Jack might know where to look to ek
e out some tidbit of information. Why does a young man of nineteen or twenty drop out of school, fiddle with the possibility of coming back, and then drop out of life? I could hardly imagine Jack's mother telling a college buddy of his that she would see if she could find him. If Steve Millman had not completed college, it might limit his future achievements. Perhaps he had finished elsewhere under his name and then dropped out of sight. But most of all, the coincidence of his not returning to Rimson after Heinz's death raised a red flag.

  I set aside my discomfort and dialed the number Fallon had given me for Martin McHugh. It rang several times. Then a mechanical voice came on to tell me that—and here McHugh inserted his own name in his own voice—was unavailable and please leave a name and number. I declined to do so. There were other options, one of them being a chat with an operator. Maybe later, I thought. I didn't want to give up too much myself and give him the upper hand. Perhaps he refused to answer his phone at all until the caller was identified.

  I pulled out the sketch of the dorm corridor. I had already spoken to or attempted to contact four of the students: Fallon, Millman, McHugh, and Woodson. Heinz was the fifth person, leaving four more names on the list. I had not picked the original four at random. Either their rooms were close to Heinz's or they had some attribute, like living in Phoenix, that prompted me to start there. Now it was time to assess the last four.

  A man named Andrew Franklin lived and worked in Minneapolis. There was a time difference, but it was late enough in the morning that he would be at work. A pleasant woman answered, noting the name of a law firm, and I asked to speak to Mr. Franklin. She was much easier to deal with than Barry Woodson's receptionist in New York, and in a few moments I was talking to Mr. Franklin.

  “Heinz Gruner,” he said. “I haven't heard that name mentioned in many years. I knew him, of course. We were both students at Rimson, but he suffered a fatal accident.”

  “That's what I'm calling about,” I said, having been given my opening. I reminded him about the accident and told him I had known Heinz in high school. “I'm trying to learn exactly what led to his accident, and Dean Hershey gave me a list of all the students who lived on Heinz's corridor that semester.”

  “What's your theory?”

  “I think someone was with him on that mountain, Mr. Franklin. Did you travel to Arizona that spring?”

  “Never set foot in the state. I thrive on cold weather.”

  I was happy to hear someone did. “Do you know who accompanied him or who might have met him down there?”

  “Not an inkling. I remember the morning he took off from school. I helped him down to a taxi with his luggage. He was trying to do it all by himself and I figured he'd topple down the stairs if he didn't have help.”

  I perked up. “You helped him with his luggage?”

  “Down to the taxi, yes.”

  “Do you remember how much he had?”

  “Couple of heavy suitcases. That was before the day of these wheelie things. You had to hoist those old ones and boy, were his old. Looked like they came from the Old World.”

  They probably had, I thought. “Do you recall if he had a backpack, Mr. Franklin?”

  “I'm sure he didn't.”

  “Was he going to Arizona directly from school?”

  “Oh yes. He had finished the one or two finals he had to take and was on his way. I was in the dorm that morning studying for one of my own or I wouldn't have been around to help. He was flying to Phoenix.”

  “His luggage was never recovered after the accident,” I said. “That's why I'm asking.”

  “Hard to misplace that big one of his. I could hardly lift it. Must have had all his clothes from the whole year. Maybe he was planning on buying a backpack when he got to Phoenix. I know he intended to do some climbing. He told me as we jockeyed those bags down the stairs.”

  “Did he say with whom?”

  “If he did, it didn't register.”

  “Do you remember a student named Steven Millman?”

  “Steve? Sure. He was on the same corridor that year.”

  “He lived in Phoenix,” I said. “You don't happen to remember if he was in the same taxi intending to join Heinz in Arizona?”

  “No idea. Wait a minute. There was something strange about Millman. Let me think.” A few silent seconds passed. “He dropped out of school.”

  “That's what I heard.”

  “You know, I never connected his dropping out with Heinz's death until this minute.” He sounded distressed.

  “I don't know if there is a connection,” I said, “but it's one of the things I'm working on.”

  “Interesting. Have you spoken to Millman?”

  I told him what had happened when Herb Fallon called Millman's mother.

  “So he's made himself unavailable. You know, I never heard about Heinz's accident till I got back to campus that fall. We had a convocation the first day we were back and the dean told us. I didn't know Steve was gone until a couple of weeks into the semester when it just came to me that he wasn't there.”

  “Was anyone in your class a close friend of Steve?”

  “I don't know. I think he had a double room that last year. His roommate was—”

  “Arthur Howell?” I asked, reading the name off my diagram.

  “Artie, right. Give Artie a call. He'll know where Steve is.”

  I wasn't as convinced as Mr. Franklin, but I was certainly going to try. “I will do that. Just to get my notes right: no one else was taking Heinz's taxi to the airport, correct?”

  “Correct. When the suitcases were in the trunk, the driver took off. There were two heavy suitcases and no backpack.”

  “You've been very helpful, Mr. Franklin.” I finished off the conversation with my usual request that he get in touch if he remembered anything new. He promised he would, and I thought he sounded sincere. After twenty years of not giving Heinz Gruner and his death a thought, Andrew Franklin had suddenly had his eyes opened to possibilities he had never dreamed of.

  For my part, I now knew that Heinz had taken off with heavy luggage. What had become of it?

  The person to talk to was Mrs. Gruner. There was a possibility that Heinz had shipped one or both suitcases back home before he got on his flight to Phoenix. That was something she would remember. And if she never saw any of his luggage again, even in her grief she would likely recall that fact.

  I got in my car and drove over to Hillside Village. It wasn't quite lunchtime yet, and I was able to catch her sitting in a sunny room enclosed in glass at the back of the building. She was talking to a woman about her age, but when she saw me she brightened and waved me over. The other woman got up and walked away, joining a small group near the window.

  We caught up for a few minutes like old friends. I told her she looked better than when I'd last seen her, and she admitted that she'd decided to become more active, to spend less time in her room and more time among the residents.

  “I think it's doing you good,” I said. “I want to tell you what I've been doing since I last saw you.” I told her about my trip to Arizona, leading in gently to my visit to Picacho Peak Park.

  “You went there?” She seemed astounded.

  “It's a beautiful place,” I said. “And I wanted to see if I could learn more about Heinz's death.”

  Her face became sober, the lines in her forehead deeper. “You found out something, Chris?”

  “I found out a few things and I have some questions for you.”

  “I will tell you anything I know.”

  The first thing I did was go over the names of the young men on the dormitory corridor. I read them off slowly, asking her if any of them sounded familiar. She listened attentively as I read each one, then shookher head, appearing discouraged. When I said, “Herb Fallon,” though, she perked up.

  “Herb,” she repeated. “Herbie. Maybe he knew a Herbie. Maybe I heard that name from him.”

  “He's a professor at Rimson now,” I said. “He liked Hei
nz very much.”

  “A professor,” she said sadly. “My boy would have been a professor.”

  I waited. Finally, she told me to continue. I read off the last few names. One sounded somewhat familiar, but she could identify no one as good friend or best friend or hiking companion. The name Steve Millman rang no bell.

  “I want to ask you about Heinz's luggage,” I said.

  “What luggage?”

  “He took suitcases to school, didn't he?”

  “In the fall, yes. In the spring he brought them home.”

  “But that spring he flew to Phoenix.”

  “So what happened to his luggage?” she asked.

  “That's my question.”

  She thought quietly. “If my husband were here, he would remember. Wait, wait. Yes, something happened with the suitcases. There were two. One we had from Germany. The other we bought when he started at Rimson. When he came home for holidays, he brought the smaller one with him. But he went from Rimson to Arizona that spring; I remember that. He took all of it with him. When he died and my husband went out, there was no suitcase, just a—what do you call it? One of those things you carry on your back when you hike.”

  “A backpack,” I said.

  “A small backpack. No clothes.”

  “Did your husband inquire after the suitcases?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. It was the least of our problems.” She closed her eyes. “There was something,” she said, “something funny about the suitcases. Let me think a moment.”

  I stood and walked to the large window. Beautiful plantings and a small waterfall were just beyond the glass, separated by a path for walkers. I was impressed with the care this institution had taken for the sake of beauty. At this time of year, the greenery was lush and the water so clear it made me thirsty.

  “Chris.”

  I turned. Mrs. Gruner's eyes were open, wide open.

  “A suitcase came to the house. I remember now. It was after my husband came back, after the funeral. The doorbell rang one morning and when I opened the door, there was a man with a piece of paper for me to sign. I was so shocked when I saw the suitcase, I could hardly breathe. It was as though Heinz were about to walk through the open door. Only there was no Heinz. There was just a suitcase.”