A Cincinnati Cold Case

by R. W. Nichols

  “How much did they give you?”

  Patricia slumped in her chair, cowering as if he had threatened her with a club.

  “No, no. No money.”

  “Don’t lie to me. I’m not turning you in.”

  She looked at him hopefully, although somewhat suspiciously, knowing men always wanted something when they treated her kindly. She only knew she didn’t want to go to jail. She resigned herself to the fact that she would have to do anything this man wanted.

  “Twenty thousand dollars,” she said so quietly that Jimmy had trouble hearing her. The bribe was too small for what had been at stake. He wanted her to know that.

  “You could have gotten more,” he said. “In fact, if you cooperate, I’m sure you will get more.”

  Patricia opened her mouth, but shut it without saying a word. What did this man expect her to do? More than twenty thousand? It had to be illegal and therefore very dangerous. There was a chance she would be killed. She looked around the drab apartment. Truly, what did she have to lose? And she’d found her conscience difficult to live with. Fundamentally she was a law-abiding woman, but circumstances had been beyond her control. She had been drowning in debt.

  “Will you help?” Jimmy asked.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She listened quietly while Jimmy explained and then asked the obvious.

  “Will I be in danger?”

  “I don’t think so. These people aren’t mobsters. And I’ll be there to make sure you’re protected.”

  Patricia agreed, although hesitantly, and Jimmy left, promising to contact her as soon as the arrangements were made. He felt a surge of excitement, just like he had whenever he, as a police detective, was closing in on a suspect. In the famous words of an old television show, he loved it when ‘a plan came together’. It was exhilarating that the game was afoot and his plan was underway. And if it was slightly illegal, what did it matter? He wasn’t confined to following the absolute limits of the law. Not now. And as long as he didn’t get caught, he wasn’t worried about repercussions.

  Chapter 28

  “Just follow the script exactly as we rehearsed,” Jimmy encouraged. “Everything will be okay.”

  “I’m shaking like a leaf,” Patricia said. “I don’t know if I can go through with it.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Jimmy said, dialing the number after pushing the phone into her small, cold hand.

  “Wurtsmith residence,” a voice on the other end said.

  “Uh, hello,” Patricia said. “I’d like to speak to Naomi.” Her voice was calm and self-assured, no matter her earlier exclamation. Jimmy felt himself relax, now more confident in his plan and that it would work.

  “And who can I say is calling?” the voice asked.

  “Patricia Lorenzo. Naomi will remember me.”

  There was a short pause and then a different voice came on the line.

  “This is Mrs. Wurtsmith.” The haughty voice stated, and then added grudgingly, “How can I help you?”

  “I need more money,” Patricia said quickly, her words tumbling out in what sounded, even to him, like fear. If she wasn’t panicky, then she was one hell of an actress. “After Keith died they took away my house. There were so many bills from the hospital and the doctors…” Her rambling words faded off.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Naomi said in an uncharitable manner, one that was not in the least sympathetic. The brief, concerned words about helping had been said, but not meant. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’ve got to help me!” Patricia’s voice was nearing hysteria. “There’s nobody else I can call. Please, I helped you. Now you must help me!”

  “Calm down! I’ll see what I can do. How much are we talking about?”

  “Twenty thousand,” Patricia said in a small voice hindered by a sob.

  “Twenty thousand! Look, I’m sorry about your husband, but what you’re talking about is blackmail. I’m not going to give you another twenty thousand.”

  “But that’s what you gave me before not to tell anyone about the other will. The one that Mr. Purdue and I witnessed. You got a lot and I need that much just to pay off my debts. I’m not trying to get rich; I just owe so much. You’ve got to help me!”

  “I suppose Purdue wants more, too.”

  “No, no. I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to him in the last ten years, not since the trial.”

  There was a pause and then, “Let me think about it. Give me your number and I’ll get back to you.”

  “No, I don’t have a phone. I’ll call you tomorrow. I need that money. Believe me when I say it will be the last time and you’ll never hear from me again. I only want to get out of the hole. But I’ve got to have twenty grand.”

  Jimmy nodded and Patricia hung up. Jimmy understood that using the phone in his office was a risk, but he couldn’t attach a recorder to a cell phone. There were techies out there that could, but he wasn’t one of them. If Naomi managed to trace the phone, at least she wouldn’t have Patricia’s home phone number. Fortunately that was unlisted, the result of all the past due calls she’d gotten over the years. The woman hadn’t lied; she was deeply in debt. Her credit was ruined; he’d found out this information when he’d checked out her background. He certainly didn’t blame her for keeping her phone number hidden; the poor woman deserved as much privacy as she could get.

  “You did great,” Jimmy said in admiration. “You’re quite the actress. In fact, I think you missed your calling. I couldn’t have done better.”

  Patricia smiled, but Jimmy could see her hands were shaking. She was a timid woman, but there was great strength underneath. She deserved, and had earned, his respect. He wasn’t just telling her these things to be nice.

  “We’ve got it all on tape. I’ll turn it over to the lawyer and he’ll get the authorities involved on that end. He’s got somebody checking the authenticity of Wurtsmith’s signature right now, and this will help prove the will’s real. Thank you for your help, Patricia. I’m sure the Ervines will give you a substantial reward. This will mean a lot to them.”

  “They won’t arrest me, will they?” She had flinched at his mention of the authorities and didn’t seem to hear anything else he’d said.

  “I can’t guarantee that, but since you’ve been so cooperative, I’m sure they’ll just thank you instead. My friend at the station will see to it. You’ll be fine.” He patted her hand, noticing again how cold it was. As she rose to go, he added, “Really, you’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  After she left, he sat most of the afternoon at his desk going over again the information he had on Naomi Wurtsmith. She had been the first of Wurtsmith’s wives. Now seventy-four, nearly twenty years younger than the man when they’d married, she lived with their son in a rundown mansion on the north side of town. A picture of the home showed rambling additions with tall, narrow windows covered over with a dark, heavy fabric that couldn’t allow sunlight in or the occupants a view out. The woman had lived the bulk of her life locked away from the outside world. Considering her efforts to keep the Ervine boy from getting his inheritance, it was plain this isolation hadn’t favorably impacted the way she treated anyone she considered beneath her.

  The son, Irving Wurtsmith, was something of an odd duck. In his mid-fifties, he’d never married and lived at home with his mother. He didn’t appear to have a social life. The one photo Jimmy had found of him was taken fifteen years earlier and wasn’t clear enough to make out the man’s features. The blurry picture showed a tall, dark-haired man slinking around the back of a van, doing his best to evade the camera. The paparazzi that took the photo must have been very disappointed. A picture of the recluse son of Warren Wurtsmith had to be worth quite a bit. This phobia against having his picture taken wasn’t hereditary. Warren, himself, had never shi
ed away from a camera. Jimmy remembered seeing several photos taken with the man on his deathbed, smiling as if his death were just another party being thrown in his honor. In that case, it was.

  At four o’clock he decided he’d put enough time in at the office. If there were a new client out there desperate for his services, that hypothetical customer would just have to come back tomorrow. He slid the shiny new sign he’d had made into the slot on the door. It read – “Out on assignment, leave message”, with his work number listed underneath. He studied it, pleased with the attention grabbing dark-blue-on-silver lettering. The printer had done a good job. He hoped the simple message left the reader with the impression that his services were in demand and that he was effective at his job. Maybe that was a lot to ask out of five words and a phone number, but Jimmy was optimistic. It surprised him that he was enjoying his new occupation as much as he was and decided that it had to do with the challenges; he’d always thought it fun to solve puzzles. It certainly did not involve the physical abuse he’d experienced. He’d been a cop for twenty years and had never been banged up as badly as he’d been in the last two weeks. It was downright embarrassing.

  Jimmy was thinking this as he descended the stairs to the first floor and walked outside into the bright sunshine. It had turned into a beautiful day while he’d been hidden away inside getting paper cuts. Mid April was always nice in the Ohio valley, one of the sweetest times of the year. There was even the scent of lilacs in the air, although Jimmy wasn’t sure if he smelled or only imagined this over the car exhausts and the toxic fumes from one of the factories a few blocks over. No, it was definitely lilacs. Someplace on the block was a bush in bloom, struggling valiantly to seduce a bee.

  Before he reached his car a long, heavy vehicle that, kindly, could be called ‘vintage’ pulled up near him and a woman got out. It took him a few seconds to recognize Izzy. Another older woman wearing a large, droopy hat remained in the car. She didn’t look familiar.

  “Hi, Jimmy,” Izzy called. “Glad I caught you.”

  He started walking over, a big smile on his face. It was always a pleasure seeing Izzy. She looked so pretty in a short plum-colored corduroy jacket and tight jeans; she almost took his breath away.

  Before he could reach her, an older car with a loud exhaust came barreling around the corner, headed directly at them. Jimmy caught a flash of sunlight on metal and before he had time to think about it, his cop instincts took over. He leaped toward the young woman in an attempt to push her to the ground, but he was only close enough to grab a handful of cloth. There was a tearing sound as the jacket sleeve ripped loose from the shoulder seam, only to be abruptly muted by several loud popping noises.

  Jimmy felt a quick whoosh of air rushing past his head and heard the ting of a bullet ricocheting off the fancy wrought-iron support posts of the building’s entrance, just before he and Izzy landed in a heap on the sidewalk. He pulled his revolver out of its holster at the same time as he fell, protectively covering Izzy’s body and holding her down. Tires squealed at the end of the block as the car pivoted around the corner on two wheels, the roar of the motor already fading. The perpetrator was getting away.

  Everything happened so quickly that Jimmy didn’t get a shot off and because of his position, prone on the sidewalk, was unable to get the plate number. Disgusted with himself and hugely alert to the possibility of the car returning, he jumped up and quickly assisted the young woman to hers.

  “What the hell!” she exclaimed. Izzy appeared more angry than afraid or dazed as she dusted off her clothes and examined the tear in her jacket. “Just what’s going on? I know Cinci’s bad, but I’ve never been shot at before!”

  “I don’t know,” Jimmy said, shaking his head. For some reason the murder of the prostitute in Indianapolis popped into his head. Mason. Was he the shooter? Could it be the man had returned? If he had, there would be hell to pay and Jimmy was even more concerned about Izzy than he had been a mere sixty seconds ago.

  “Do you think it was Grant? Would he shoot at you?” He left unspoken the fact that Izzy was living with another man. It was well known that Mason was violent and jealous. Those were strong enough motives for murder and with his past history it wasn’t much of a stretch to think he would try to kill her if he knew.

  The woman who had been sitting in the car exited and ran up to Izzy.

  “Are you all right?” Eleanor Winthrop asked. Shaking with concern, the wide, droopy brim of her hat doing a rumba, she anxiously helped Izzy brush off the small clumps of dirt that still clung to her clothes. “Was that a gun? Was someone shooting at you two?”

  Izzy looked at Eleanor pointedly, before saying in a voice that for some reason lacked emotion, “Jimmy thinks it may have been Grant. That he’s back.” Her face was unreadable.

  Eleanor stared back at her, not speaking for a few seconds, her face assuming a similar blank expression. What was the matter with these women? Jimmy thought he’d seen every possible reaction to violence that there was, but this was a new one.

  “Oh, God. What are you going to do?” Eleanor finally whispered.

  Izzy shrugged as if there was nothing she could do. What options do abused women have? Hide? Where? Jimmy knew that few could hide away from their abuser; most were found and suffered the consequences. He felt a rush of pity and sadness for Izzy. Why had she allowed herself to be in such a position?

  Putting his gun away, he pulled out his cell phone.

  “I’m calling 9-1-1. We need the police here.”

  A handful of people who had heard the shots were inching their way outside, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. Jimmy knew that the scene would soon be contaminated if the authorities didn’t get there quickly. He motioned them back into their offices and stores.

  “We better go,” Izzy said.

  “No,” Jimmy said, putting a restraining hand on her arm. “You need to speak with the officers. And you may need protection assigned. We’ll see what Paul says.”

  Jimmy wondered what Paul was going to think about Izzy being with him again. Come to think of it, he didn’t know why she’d wanted to talk to him in the first place.

  “What was it you wanted? Before we were so rudely interrupted?” He smiled and was relieved when she smiled back. She appeared to bounce back quickly.

  “Eleanor and I were in the area shopping and I thought I’d stop in to see if you’d learned anything new about Janet. Remember, I want to be kept informed. You promised you’d call if you found anything. I have a right to know.”

  The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, coming closer.

  “Of course, Izzy,” he said. “You’ll be the second one I call. Right after Ed Hilton.”

  Three state police cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing, pulled in one after the other. A county car followed soon after. And no more than five minutes later, a dark, unmarked sedan nosed up to the yellow crime scene tape one of the policemen was hurriedly stringing around the perimeter. Jimmy watched as Paul Lewinski exited and came jogging to them. His face was drawn and showed haggard concern. When he saw Jimmy, his expression changed, becoming cold and stiff.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, pulling Izzy to him in a protective hug.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, her voice muffled by his jacket and chest.

  Gripping both shoulders, he held her away and looked into her face. “God, Abby. I heard there was shooting, and I feared the worst.”

  “I’m okay. Really. Eleanor and I were shopping and we thought we’d see if Jimmy knew anything new about Janet. He said he’d keep me informed.” She drew a long shuddering breath, before continuing in a different tone, “And then there was this car and some loud popping noises and Jimmy threw me down to the ground. My jacket got torn.” Her lip came out and began to quiver.

  Jimmy looked at Izzy in amazement as Paul again pulled her close. This was not the sa
me woman that had earlier seemed calm, and if you get right down to it, irritated, at being shot at. This woman seemed dazed and was not handling the events of the last half-hour well. Even more surprising to him, she was crying. He would never have suspected Izzy to react like this. Of course, some people handle difficulties well only to fall apart when someone commiserated with them. Apparently, Izzy was one of those.

  He felt a pang of jealousy that Paul’s arms were the ones she fell into for comfort. But of course they would be. She was his girl. Jimmy knew he had no claim on her. Besides, where did he get the idea that she was interested in him? An old fool was all he was. They could be nothing more than friends. Depressed, he looked away to find that Eleanor was studying him. She seemed to want to say something, but instead merely shook her head and looked away. He wondered what that was all about, but didn’t have time to think about it as the first of many officers approached him with notebook in hand.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” the officer asked, suspicion of Jimmy’s bruised face evident in his voice. And his expression also plainly showed that he thought the shooting was a drug deal gone bad, that Jimmy was just another dealer who was on his way to ending up dead. And that this whole episode was a waste of his time.

  Jimmy cleared his throat and looked around for support, understanding for the first time how suspects must feel. He watched as Paul urged the two women toward his car to take their statements. It was plain he wasn’t going to help and that Jimmy was on his own. Not one of the officers wandering around on site looked familiar. Several stood together in groups of twos and threes, but all eyes were glued on him. Jimmy started to sweat, finding it disconcerting that the cops were making him more nervous than the shooter had.