The Cinco de Mayo Murder

by Lee Harris

  “I not only spoke to him, I had lunch with him. And I talked to Barry Woodson and to Eric Goode and to some others. What exactly are you trying to find out?”

  “Nothing. I think we're done.”

  I dropped my notebook back in my bag and said goodbye. As I walked back to the car, I felt grateful that I hadn't parked in a garage for ten or fifteen times as much as the meter. All I had gotten from our conversation was that Koch was nervous about my talking to Steve and Marty. To me that meant that those two men knew something about Koch, and Koch didn't want me to find out what that was.

  As I drove home it occurred to me that Heinz's old friend from high school, Don Shiller, might know something about whether Heinz had applied to Harvard and why he hadn't gone. I couldn't think how this affected his trip to Arizona and his subsequent death, but the issue seemed to bother Koch, which made it potentially interesting.

  I would call Don that night.

  * * *

  “Don,” I said when I reached him that evening, “I have some questions that no one else can answer but you might be able to.”

  “I'll give it a try. Why do you think I have answers?”

  “Because you were Heinz's best friend, and best friends confide in each other.”

  “True. What do you want to know?”

  “The yearbooksays that Heinz wanted to go to Harvard.”

  “Yeah, that was a big deal in his life and in his family. His father had his heart set on Harvard. He was a pretty authoritarian man—not to say he wasn't a loving father—but this was what he wanted for his son.”

  “Did Heinz apply?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Was he turned down?”

  “That's one of the questions I can't answer. I know there was a lot of discussion about where he was going when those envelopes were delivered. I think Rimson offered him a scholarship, and that may have been what made the decision.”

  “You said Heinz's father had his heart set on Harvard. How did Heinz feel about it? Was his heart set on Harvard, too?”

  “You know, I don't think so. We talked a lot about where we wanted to go. For a while, he was enthralled with Harvard. They drove up there between our junior and senior years. He thought the campus was great, the city was great. He was interviewed, though, and I'm not sure the interview went all that well. You remember Heinz. He was quiet and shy. It took awhile till he came out of his shell and I don't think the interviewer had the skills to do it. Or maybe he didn't care. Maybe he just made up his mind that this kid wasn't Harvard material.

  “They came back from Boston, and Heinz wasn't talking about Harvard so much anymore. He started talking about Rimson. One weekend he and his father flew to Illinois for a visit. When they came back, there was a lot of discord in the family. Heinz was very circumspect, especially where his parents were concerned. I could tell something had happened but I knew better than to ask about it.”

  “Did he tell you what he thought of Rimson?”

  “He loved the campus. They offered the kinds of courses he was interested in. And I think they gave him a scholarship.”

  “How did he become interested?” I persisted. “Some guy, some relative or something, came to the high school and singled him out.”

  “I know I asked you this before, but could that man's name have been Alfred Koch?”

  “I wouldn't know. I don't think Heinz ever mentioned it. Anyway, he was glad he made the choice, even if his father wasn't.”

  “Mrs. Gruner showed me old letters from Heinz to his parents shortly before she died. In one of them Heinz refers to a man he calls K. When I asked her who this was, she become unhinged. She took the letter and more or less threw me out. At that time I had no idea who he was, but her reaction was so strong, so negative—”

  “It may have reminded her of an unhappy time in their lives.”

  “I'm told she left whatever money she had to Rimson. She must have decided at some point that Heinz had made a good decision and was happy there.”

  “She wasn't as involved in that college decision as her husband was. He just had this dream that his son would go to Harvard. I'll tell you something else. I have a feeling money was involved.”

  “You mean the cost of tuition?” I asked.

  “No, I mean to get Heinz into Harvard.”

  “I see,” I said, although I didn't see clearly. “That could account for her anger.”

  “And maybe her shame,” Don said. “That they had to pay to get Heinz into college.”

  “Don, you've been very helpful. I'll let you know how this turns out.”

  “I'll keep thinking about it. Something else may come back.”

  I said that I hoped it would.

  Koch had taken money from the Gruners, possibly a bribe, possibly a fee, depending on their arrangement. It sounded more like a bribe to me. If he was a scout for Rimson, what was he doing trying to get someone into Harvard?

  I could believe that Heinz would not interview well. And although he did well in high school, it was possible that his SATs weren't good enough. Smart people are sometimes poor test takers. And the Gruners might not have sent him to special classes to increase his scores, thinking that he was bright and would fare well without assistance. But what did all of this have to do with Heinz's death? And who might know what filled the gaps in Don's story?

  By ten Tuesday morning I decided I wasn't going to hear from Marty McHugh on my request for a private conversation with Steve Millman. That meant I could not confirm that I had spoken to Millman himself. It also meant, I thought, that Marty was involved in the hike on the mountain. But whether Heinz had wanted Harvard over Rimson, whether Marty had been accused of plagiarism in his second year or fourth year, I still couldn't see a motive for either of those people to want to harm Heinz.

  I did mindless things around the house, then in the garden, which I preferred, trying to think of someone I hadn't talked to who might still shed light on this case. And then a name popped into my head. I had spoken only briefly to Dr. Farley, the executor of Mrs. Gruner's will. If she appointed him to fulfill that important task, she must have had great faith in him and perhaps some affection to go along with it. I called Hillside Village and made an appointment to see him at eleven.

  I then called Dean Hershey and asked a question that had been bothering me since my conversation with Don Shiller the night before. “I have heard on good authority that Professor Koch promised to get Heinz Gruner into Harvard.”

  “I think your authority is not reliable.”

  Ignoring his comment, I continued, “I have also heard that Professor Koch took money from Heinz's parents to accomplish that.”

  “If that's true, it was a betrayal of the college's trust and most certainly unethical. Heinz didn't get into Harvard, as I heard the story. And what you're saying sounds like a bribe, and that could possibly be illegal. Especially if he failed.”

  “That's what I'm thinking.”

  “May I ask who told you this?”

  “Heinz's oldest friend from high school.”

  “I see.”

  “Was Professor Koch paid to scout for Rimson?”

  “It was part of his duties. He taught fewer classes than normal and had a schedule that accommodated travel. We paid his expenses, of course. But if you mean did he receive a bounty for bringing in students, the answer is definitely not.”

  “Do you know if Professor Koch had contacts at Harvard?”

  “I'm sure he had contacts at many top universities. He was well known in his field, he attended conferences, he had gone to school with people who ended up on faculties around the country. I'm sure he knew people at Harvard.”

  “Thank you, Dean Hershey.”

  “Miss Bennett, what on earth does this have to do with Heinz's death?”

  “I wish I knew. It's just something that I became aware of in my investigation.”

  We left it at that. A little later, I drove over to Hillside Village and waited in the l
obby till Dr. Farley came down the corridor to see me.

  “How are you doing, Mrs. Brooks?”

  “Pretty good,” I said as we began to walk toward his office. “I've made progress in my search for answers in the death of Mrs. Gruner's son, and it occurred to me you might be able to fill in some gaps.”

  “It's possible.” He unlocked the door to his office, pushed it open, and let me walk inside first. Then we took seats in the two guest chairs. “How can I help you?”

  I gave him a little background, reminding him of his job of mediator shortly before Mrs. Gruner died.

  “I remember that. We didn't discuss the substance of her anger but we made a kind of peace.”

  “For which I was very grateful. Now I'd like to talk to you about the substance. I think Mrs. Gruner may at some point in your relationship have told you things that could help me get to the bottom of this case.”

  “It's possible,” he said once again.

  “I'm sure she told you the circumstances of her son's death.”

  “She did. It marked the beginning of the decline of her family. Her husband died a year or so later, and she had a stroke after that that left her incapacitated. She made good physical progress in her recovery, thanks to her strong will, but her spirit was crushed from the moment she heard about the boy's death.”

  “I can understand that. Let's go back a bit in time to when her son was applying to colleges. Did she talk to you about that?”

  Dr. Farley looked across the room, then nodded. “She did. I have to think about this. Give me a minute.”

  He didn't go to a file drawer to find a document so I assumed his conversation with her had been informal. “There was something that troubled her, some difficulty her son had. He wanted to go to one school but wasn't accepted. He chose another.”

  “He wanted to go to Harvard,” I said. “His father wanted him to go to Harvard.”

  “Yes, that's it. It was the father. I never met Mr. Gruner, of course. He died before Hilda had her stroke. But yes, he wanted the son to go to Harvard and they made some connection, a friend or relative, who said he could make it happen. Wait a minute. It was more than that. He asked for a fee to accomplish the acceptance.”

  “Do you recall how much he charged?”

  “It's too long ago, but it was a lot of money, at least to the Gruners, thousands of dollars.”

  “That would be a lot of money for me, too,” I said.

  “And when it didn't work out, he refused to return it. Maybe he gave them a few hundred back but he said he had incurred large expenses in his futile attempt. She never forgave him. To hear her tell the story, it could have happened yesterday. She felt betrayed. Her husband was beyond consolation. Interestingly, the son seemed happy to go to Rimson, the other school.”

  “Did they threaten to sue this man?” I asked.

  “Dignity was very important to the family. To sue would be to admit that they had bribed someone to get their son into Harvard and they couldn't do that. They wouldn't do that.”

  “She left her money to Rimson College,” I said.

  “Yes. We talked about that. She felt the son had gotten a fine education there, that he was happy there and that the library should benefit. As you know, I'm in the process of adjusting the endowment set up in his memory.”

  “Do you remember anything else about the man who took the money?”

  “He taught at Rimson. The family had known him from Germany. I'm not sure I recall anything else.”

  “Why did Mrs. Gruner tell you about this, Dr. Farley?”

  “She wasn't a very outgoing person. I think she was looking for a confidant, someone who would listen, someone she could trust, a person who would not be judgmental. I would not have told you these things if she were still alive.”

  “I understand.”

  “It was something that she never stopped thinking about.”

  I knew that was true. She had said as much to me. I thanked him for telling me. He went on to assure me that he was taking no fee himself for his work on her will. Every cent would go to the Rimson Library. I decided I had finally found an honest man.

  I was eating a late lunch when the phone rang. I reached over and picked it up, moving my salad out of the way.

  A man's voice said, “Is this Christine Bennett Brooks?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Steven Millman.”

  “Yes. Hello.”

  “Marty McHugh doesn't know I'm calling. I'm using a throwaway device and you won't be able to trace the call.

  If you tell McHugh we have spoken, I can assure you I will know and we will never speak again.”

  “I have no intention of telling him.”

  “I know some details about Heinz Gruner's death that no one else will tell you. I haven't decided how much—if anything—I'm going to tell you. But you have to convince me that what you know stays with you.”

  “You're putting me in a difficult position, Mr. Millman,” I said. “I don't intend to tell Marty McHugh, but if I learn that Heinz was murdered, I'm bound by my conscience and the law to tell the police.”

  “Heinz wasn't murdered.”

  “Can you prove that to me?”

  “Probably not, but I can tell you what I know. You can believe it or not as you choose.”

  Something struck me as he spoke. “Does Marty know what you know?”

  “Some of it. I'm probably the only person alive who knows the whole story. But other people know parts of it.”

  “Mr. Millman, you know I'm interested. I knew Heinz in high school. I met his mother recently, in the last month of her life. The pain of the loss of her son never diminished. I believe I convinced her that he didn't commit suicide, which was her greatest fear. But if someone was responsible for his death—”

  “Someone was.”

  “I want to know.”

  “How will you benefit from finding out?”

  For a moment, I didn't quite understand his question. “Do you mean will I make money from learning the truth? I won't. I wouldn't try to. All I know is that something terrible happened that day on Picacho Peak and if I can find out what it was, perhaps I can make some good come out of that day.”

  “I will tell you one thing today, something you've already guessed. I was on the mountain when Heinz fell.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I can't say anything—” The line was suddenly silent and I realized his phone or card had run out of time. He had given me one small fact that I already knew, and now I would have to wait to see whether he would ever call again.

  I hung up and sat there, wondering if Steve had another phone card, but after a few minutes I pulled my salad over and began to eat again. Steve Millman had made contact and that was surprising and rewarding. Now I had to wait.

  Mel called when she got home from school. Both her kids were at activities in town, and she wanted to sit and chat and enjoy the fine weather. I told her to come over and I put the kettle on the stove. Eddie was also doing something at a friend's house, which gave us an hour or so to relax without children present.

  We sat at the patio table under the umbrella, feeling a pleasant breeze, and I listened to a tale of Mel's mother, whom I knew, and she listened to an update of my case.

  “How did he find you?” Mel asked when I had told her of my call earlier in the day.

  “I think I gave him my full name and he knows approximately where I live, so between the Internet and trial and error, he got my number.”

  “And he admits to being on the mountain that day.”

  “It's not much of an admission, Mel. He's been my main suspect since I found out he lived in Phoenix and dropped out of Rimson after that semester.”

  “But he told you a different story last time you spoke. Now he's coming clean.”

  “That's what it looks like. I hope there's going to be another call and he'll come cleaner.”

  “Why won't he say these things to you in front of tha
t other fellow, the one who took you to lunch?”

  “I don't know. I assume Steve is going to implicate him in some way.”

  “So this other guy—”

  “McHugh.”

  “Killed your friend and won't let Steve disclose what he knows.”

  “Steve said there was no murder.”

  “Sounds like there's more to the story, Chris.”

  “This is one story that doesn't seem to have an end.” I poured more tea. “I think it's getting to be time for iced tea.”

  “Right. And homemade lemonade. I always use ice cubes made of the tea so it doesn't dilute.”

  “Good idea. Jack will appreciate having something tasty in the fridge in hot weather.” I leaned toward the house, thinking I had heard a sound.

  “What's up?”

  “Thought that was my phone. I don't want to miss Steve if he calls back. If I don't answer, he may give up.”

  “He's not going to give up, Chris,” Mel said. “He's made a big decision. It's taken him twenty years to come to this point. He wants to get something off his chest and you're going to be the one who hears it.”

  “I'm glad he said there was no murder. I didn't exactly promise not to tell anyone, but I have to go to the police if there's a cause and I don't want to betray a trust.”

  “You'll work it out. It won't be the first time.”

  If there hadn't been a murder, it had to have been an accident. If it was an accident, I didn't have to give my information to the police. I decided that some argument must have taken place among the three young men on the mountain. Steve was not the most likable fellow from what I had heard, and Marty had lied to me about the plagiarism to make his story more poignant. It had certainly worked on me, but discovering the lie had turned me completely against him. He had a beef with Steve Millman, and Steve Millman was angry with him. Heinz wanted to hike in the mountains and ended up with two companions who disliked each other. It must have been an unpleasant day to say the least. Which of the two had taken the suitcases? Which had taken the little backpack and returned it in time for the Towers to find it? There were still many unanswered questions.

  “He called you?” Jack was astounded. “That's not usual for a killer.”