by James Yaffe
I began chronologically, with Roger’s call to me last night.
Mom listened carefully, and then she said, “So after he gives himself up to you, what next?”
“We’ll have to turn him over to the police.”
“But you’ll talk to him first, you’ll ask him what he knows about the murder?”
“Of course we will.”
“So as soon as you’re finished, you’ll call me up and tell me what he said?”
“If you want me to. It might be pretty late though.”
“I don’t care how late. It’s Christmas Eve, so I won’t be getting to bed early.”
“Since when do you celebrate Christmas Eve, Mom?”
“They’re doing that old movie on television, it begins at nine o’clock. You know the movie I mean? With Jimmy Stewart, and he’s thinking of killing himself but this old meshuggenah who’s an angel talks him out of it. I like to look at that movie whenever I get a chance. It makes me cry like a baby.”
“Do you know what else the Meyer kid said to me when he called last night?” I said. “He wants a career in criminology. He’s been studying it in college, and when he graduates this year he wants to get a job that’ll give him some practical experience at investigation. And he asked me if I’d hire him as my assistant.”
Mom positively beamed at this; she doesn’t do much beaming, but she’s pretty good at it when she does. “That’s nice. It shows how highly he thinks of you. An intelligent boy. And he’ll make you a good assistant too.”
“Mom, it’s a hundred-to-one the City Council will never come through with the money to get me an assistant. And even if they do, who says this kid is going to be available? He does have certain problems hanging over him, like a possible conviction for first-degree murder.”
Mom pushed that little problem aside with a gesture. “He didn’t do any murders, did he? All right, so there won’t be any convictions.”
“I’m glad you’re so sure about that. But even if he does come out of this all right, does that make him qualified for the job? For the same salary, if I did some advertising, I could find somebody with years of experience—”
“What’s especially nice,” Mom said, “he’ll be able to live in the same city with his parents. It’s a wonderful thing for old people, to have their children close by in their reclining years. And these days, with everybody moving around so much, it don’t happen so often.”
I knew there was no point going on with the argument. So I went back to the murder case. I told her in detail about my breakfast conversation with Luke Abernathy.
When I got to the end of it, I saw she was looking troubled. “I don’t like it,” she said, “when people that don’t have any brains think they’re smart.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“This crazy old man. God knows what type life he’s been leading, but one thing is for sure, after all these years leading it, he’s got a mind like chopped liver. To take a simple logical step from A to B is impossible for him by this time. People like this are dangerous.”
“You don’t think he’s the killer, do you?”
“When did I say such a thing?”
“But why not, when you come right down to it? He admits himself that he was at Candy’s house at the time of the murder. He says he was watching from across the street, but we’ve only got his word for that.”
“And what was his motive already?”
“He’s a religious nut. Maybe he’s decided to eliminate all the false preachers in town who are leading people astray by giving them eggs to eat.”
“And how did he get into this Candy’s house, into his living room, so he could grab hold of his gun and kill him?”
“He rang the doorbell and Candy let him in, I suppose.”
“Did you get a good look at him this morning? You told me they didn’t want to let him into the coffee shop where you took him for breakfast. Even though you were with him. So Candy was alone in the house, he must’ve answered the doorbell himself, and what does he see on his front porch? A drunken old bum with his hair looking like an earthquake hit it! And Candy says, ‘Come in, come in, I’m glad to see you!’ and invites him politely into his living room?
“Also, after the old man commits the murder, how come he waits around in front of the house till the police get there, so they can see him at the scene of the crime?”
“All right, I admit it doesn’t seem likely. But what did you mean then, when you said he’s dangerous?”
“To himself I meant. There’s a cloud inside his head, a big black cloud, and it keeps him from seeing things like they really are. You said it yourself, he crossed the street without bothering to look if the light was green or red. There’s another street he’s crossing now, and I’d be surprised if he’s looking at the light.”
“What street, Mom?”
“Who knows? If I could tell you the answer, it wouldn’t be so dangerous any more. The big thing that’s worrying me, where is he getting money?”
“He hasn’t got any money. Except for what you found out, that his sister pays his rent. But she sends her check directly to his hotel, everything else he gets from begging.”
“The begging business must be doing pretty good lately. You made him an offer of a ten-dollar bill. You had it in your hand and held it out to him. And he wouldn’t take it. Why not?”
“Some kind of misplaced pride?”
“He takes his rent from his sister, he gets his food from the Salvation Army, he picks up newspapers from the trashcans, he begs on the streets for money to buy his liquor. Some pride!”
“I give up then. Why did he refuse the money?”
“Because today is no ordinary day for him. Because he can afford to be proud today. If he could refuse your ten dollars, it has to be because he’s getting money from somebody else. And what I’m asking is, who?”
“Have you got any answers?”
“Not yet. I’ll think it over for awhile.”
Mom had a forkful of shrimp on the way to her mouth, when suddenly she did something I couldn’t remember ever seeing her do before. She stopped the fork in mid-air, her hand shaking.
“Are you okay?” I said.
“I’m fine.” The shaking stopped, and her fork finished its trip to her mouth. After chewing the shrimp for a few seconds, she looked up at me. “Excuse me. This feeling came over me that he was close to me.”
“Who was close to you?”
“The fanatic. The one I can smell in this murder. Somewhere he’s hiding, any minute he could come jumping out.”
“But you still don’t know who it is?”
“All I know is, he’s getting closer. If I shut my eyes, I can almost see his face.” She shut her eyes, and I held my breath. But then she opened her eyes again and sighed. “It’s gone.” She gave a shake of her head, and then she smiled. “So has anything else come up about this case?”
I told her about our two meetings this afternoon—with Hatfield and later with Kincaid. Mom laughed when she heard what Ann had said to them.
“A lovely person, your boss. When are you going to invite her over for dinner?”
“You know she’s got a perfectly good husband. He’s an ear-nose-and-throat specialist so he makes a good living—”
“Naturally I know it. What do you think I am, the type that’s always trying to fix people up with people? You’ll invite the husband too, and also some nice unattached woman of your acquaintance. And maybe I’ll invite a man for me.”
The prospect of this delightful social occasion didn’t do my stomach any good. I hurried to change the subject. I asked her if she’d like to come to the Christmas tree-lighting ceremony tonight and be present when Roger gave himself up.
“It’s nice you should ask me,” she said, “but I don’t think so, I’ll enjoy it more on the television news.”
Ten minutes later we left the restaurant. It was almost eight o’clock, dark already, with a chill in the air. There w
ere more people on the streets than usual at this time of night.
A Santa Claus came up to us, holding out a box and asking for money for “the poor children’s fund.”
“What poor children?” Mom said. “You ask my opinion, it’s your own children we’re talking about. And since you’ve been on this corner for the last three weeks, by this time you can afford to send them for the holidays to Miami Beach, Florida. All right, here’s a five-dollar bill for you. But you should get it in your head, you’re not fooling me for a minute.”
She turned her back on Santa Claus and strode over to her little red car. “No matter how late!” she snapped at me over her shoulder, and then she went driving off.
Christmas Eve
Ann and I had arranged to meet at the giant Christmas tree at a quarter to nine. Our plan was to stand together at the fringes of the crowd, on the corner of St. Luis and Kit Carson, and presumably, while the ceremony was in progress, Roger Meyer would appear and put himself in our custody.
I still had forty-five minutes, so I killed it by strolling around in the downtown area. The shop windows were all lighted up, and some of the stores were still open. It’s not the usual practice in Mesa Grande for stores to stay open at night, but the promise of last-minute Christmas business was evidently too much to resist.
As I moved from window to window, a heavy depressed feeling began to settle over me. It didn’t matter what each store was selling—clothes or hardware, hunting rifles or liquor—the same message was being blared out. Our merchandise is better than anybody else’s. ’Tis the season to be cutthroat.
At a quarter of nine I drifted to the block where the ceremony was going to take place. It had been closed off to traffic, and a fairly large crowd was already gathered in front of the giant Christmas tree. There was a raised platform with a standing microphone; the mayor would be making a speech before he pressed the button.
The crowd was growing, and I let the newcomers slip in front of me. Then I felt a hand on my arm, and there was Ann, wearing a red coat and a fur hat, and looking pale and anxious. “If he doesn’t show—” she said.
“He’ll show, he’ll show,” I said, realizing how much I was sounding like Mom. As a little kid, whenever I needed reassuring, Mom’s standard technique was to say everything twice. (“They’ll like you, they’ll like you!”—“You’ll get there on time, you’ll get there on time!”)
I wished my feelings were as optimistic as my words. It had been in my mind off and on all day that Roger would get cold feet. What would I do in his position? Reading the newspaper, seeing how the mob was being whipped up to pounce on the mad Christ-killer and tear him to pieces? Even if I was innocent—
Squawking noises were coming from the public address system, breaking in on the noise of the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen!”
A little man in a huge overcoat was standing on the dais, shouting into the microphone. The crowd quieted somewhat, and the little man said, “It gives me great pleasure, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce our mayor, the Honorable Willard A. Butterfield, who has a few words for you before this year’s municipal Christmas tree is officially illuminated!”
I was sure the crowd had no idea who the little man was, but they applauded him anyway, as he blushed and stumbled off the platform. He was replaced by the mayor, towards whom the crowd was much less enthusiastic. Somebody even yelled out, “Sit down, Butterball!” Nevertheless, the mayor lifted his arms in the air and said, “Thank you, thank you,” and took a long time to get started, as if he was being drowned out by the applause.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he finally said, “Christmas comes but once a year—”
I won’t repeat the full text of the mayor’s speech. To tell the truth, I didn’t pay much attention. I was looking around at the crowd, and over my shoulders at the shop windows and the dark alleys, wondering where and how and when Roger Meyer would materialize. I glimpsed a lot of familiar faces in that crowd. Near the front was the Reverend Eugene Grant Morgan. At the other side, also near the front, was Dwayne McKee, the real estate man. A little bit behind him, surrounded by thick earlaps and a heavy scarf, was the pudgy, anxious face of Gabriel Candy.
“And so, as I light this splendid Christmas tree,” the mayor was saying, “with the hope and belief that the lights of peace and prosperity will be lighted up all over the world and bring light to all its peoples, let me add just one brief prayer of my own—in the immortal words of the Bard, ‘God bless us, every one!’”
He had a switch in his hands, and he pushed the button on it. Then there was a moment when every eye was on that Christmas tree and every heart, I suspect, was yearning that the damn lights wouldn’t work.
But the moment passed, everything worked fine, the sky was a blaze of red and green and yellow, and a tremendous roar went up from the crowd.
That was the moment when Ann tugged at my sleeve and pointed behind her. In a doorway a few feet away from us, with his collar pulled up to cover his chin and his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, was Roger Meyer.
We went up to him, trying to hurry but at the same time not be conspicuous.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding out of breath. “I was here at nine, I tried to attract your attention. But I didn’t want anybody to see me.”
“Never mind that,” Ann said. “My car’s parked a block away, we’ll get you to police headquarters.”
She took him by one arm, and I took him by the other. Flanking him in this way, trying to block him from view, we started down the street. The crowd had its back to us, most people were still oohing and aahing at the lights of the tree. In a couple of minutes we’d be safe in Ann’s car, and on the way to headquarters we could hear the kid’s story, and maybe something encouraging would come out of that—
“Hey! Where the hell are you going?”
It was a cop, a beefy young guy in uniform, and he was standing on the corner, five or six feet away from us, looking right at us.
“That’s the Meyer kid!” he was shouting. “I thought I recognized— Hey, that’s the kid that killed—”
Ann stepped forward quickly, her hand still locked on Roger’s arm, and spoke up loud and firm, “Officer, I’m the public defender, and this is Roger Meyer. He just learned that a warrant is out for his arrest, and he’s voluntarily given himself up to me, so that I can turn him over to the proper authorities.”
“I’m Mrs. Swenson’s investigative assistant,” I said, stepping forward too, “and I want to confirm what she just told you. Roger Meyer voluntarily gave himself up to Mrs. Swenson’s custody, and we are now officially turning him over—”
But by this time the cop was blowing his whistle and yelling, “It’s the Meyer kid! I’ve caught the Meyer kid!”
The disturbance was attracting attention. More and more people in the crowd were turning to see what was up. Then they started moving towards us. Then a few more cops appeared, and they were yelling at Roger too. “Okay, don’t make a move, put your hands up behind your head—”
“This defendant is in my custody,” Ann was saying, but the noise around her was drowning her out.
And then who should pop into the picture but assistant district attorney George Wolkowicz, with a big grin on his ugly face. “Good work, officer,” he was saying, “looks like you’ve got the man we’ve been looking for!”
“This defendant surrendered himself voluntarily,” Ann said, pushing Roger and herself towards Wolkowicz. “I am now turning him over to you—”
“Wait a second, wait a second,” Wolkowicz said. “This officer here has arrested this man. He’s a fugitive, you can’t come along and pretend—”
“He was going voluntarily to headquarters,” Ann said, “but since you happen to be here, he can save himself the trip.”
The crowd was pressing in, getting more interested. I could hear people murmuring behind me: “Is that the kid who killed that minister?” “Why don’t they put handcuffs on the son of a
bitch?”
“Goddamn it, George,” Ann raised her voice, “you know damn well we wouldn’t be out here with this boy, in the middle of the street, if he wasn’t giving himself up!” She turned to the crowd and raised her voice even more. “You can see this boy isn’t resisting arrest! You can see we were bringing him in peacefully, only these policemen are trying to grandstand—”
“You better let that officer put the cuffs on him, Ann,” Wolkowicz said, trying to equal her in loudness, “or you’ll be guilty of obstruction of justice! I’d hate to have to run you in too!”
“I’m not obstructing anything! I’m trying to see that justice is done! Do you know what the word means, justice? Ever heard of it before?”
Their voices were mingling in anger, and the crowd was joining in now, cheering on one side or the other, like spectators at a football game.
And then, suddenly, a small figure in a tight-fitting gray overcoat, with the usual strip of black cloth on the top of his head, came pushing out of the crowd and bustled right up to Wolkowicz.
“Excuse me,” Rabbi Loewenstein said, “but I saw the whole thing. I saw this young man walk up to these two people. I heard him say, ‘I want to give myself up.’ I heard them say, ‘We’ll take you to the nearest policeman.’ And as soon as they saw this officer here, this young woman said, ‘This is Roger Meyer, officer, and he’s giving himself up.’ There’s no doubt about it, and if necessary I’ll be glad to testify under oath.”
He was the shortest adult in the whole crowd, yet the way he faced up to Wolkowicz and the police officers he might have been taller than any of them. And his voice carried over everybody else’s too—on my rare appearances at synagogue I had never thought he was much of a speaker, but obviously that pulpit training was good for something.
Wolkowicz had been staring at the rabbi in astonishment, now he finally found his voice. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Eli Loewenstein. I happen to be the rabbi at Temple Beth-el here in this city. You’re assistant district attorney Wolkowicz, aren’t you? We were introduced a year ago, at a Chamber of Commerce breakfast. I believe I was the guest speaker.”