by John Verdon
After he hung up the phone, Gurney sat by the den window gazing out at the late-afternoon gloom. Suppose, as Kline had conjectured, the flower wasn’t a peony after all. Gurney was shocked to realize how fragile his new “link” was—and how much confidence he’d had in it. Overlooking the glaring flaw in a theory was a sure sign of excessive emotional attachment to it. How many times had he made that point to the criminology students in the course he taught at the state university, and here he was blundering into the same trap. It was depressing.
The dead ends of the day ran around in his head in a fatiguing loop for maybe half an hour, maybe longer.
“Why are you sitting in there in the dark?”
He swiveled in his chair and saw Madeleine silhouetted in the doorway.
“Kline wants connections more tangible than a debatable peony,” he said. “I gave the Bronx guy a few places to look. Hopefully he’ll come up with something.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“Well, on the one hand, we have the peony, or at least what we think is a peony. On the other hand, we have the difficulty of imagining the Ruddens and the Mellerys being connected to each other in any way. If ever there were people who lived in different worlds …”
“What if it’s a serial killer and there are no connections?”
“Even serial killers aren’t random killers. Their victims tend to have something in common—all blondes, all Asians, all gays—some characteristic with special meaning for the killer. So even if Mellery and Rudden were never directly involved in anything together, we’d still be looking for some common ground or similarity between them.”
“What if …” Madeleine began, but the ringing of the phone interrupted her.
It was Randy Clamm.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I thought you’d like to know you were right. I took a drive over to see the widow, and I asked that question just like you said I should—sort of matter-of-fact. All I said was, ‘Can I have the whiskey bottle that you found?’ I didn’t even have to bring the Lord into it. I’ll be damned if she didn’t say, just as matter-of-factly as myself, ‘It’s in the garbage.’ So we go out in the kitchen and there it is, sitting there in the garbage pail, a broken Four Roses bottle. I’m staring at it, speechless. Not that I was surprised that you were right—don’t get me wrong—but, Jesus, I didn’t expect it to be so easy. So damn obvious. As soon as I collect my thoughts, I ask her to show me exactly where she’d found it. But then the whole situation suddenly catches up with her—maybe because now I’m not sounding so casual—and she looks very upset. I tell her to relax, don’t worry about it, could she just tell me where it was, because that would be really helpful to us, and maybe, like, you know, would she mind telling me why the hell she moved it. I didn’t put it that way, of course, but that’s what I’m thinking. So she looks at me, and you know what she says? She says Albert’s been so good about the drinking problem, he didn’t have a drink for almost a year. He’s going to AA, he’s doing great—and when she sees the bottle, which was on the floor next to him, next to the plastic flower, the first thing she thinks is that he started drinking again and fell on the bottle, and it cut his throat, and that’s how he died. It doesn’t immediately occur to her that he’s been murdered—it doesn’t even cross her mind until the cops come and they start talking about it. But before they come, she hides the bottle because she’s thinking it’s his bottle, and she doesn’t want anyone to know he had a relapse.”
“And even after it sank into her head that he was killed, she still didn’t want anyone to know about the bottle?”
“No. Because she still thinks it was his bottle and she doesn’t want anyone to know he was drinking, especially his nice new friends from AA.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“So the whole thing turns out to be a pathetic mess. On the other hand, you got your proof that the murders are connected.”
Clamm was upset, full of the conflicted feelings that Gurney was all too familiar with—the feelings that made being a good cop so hard, so ultimately wearying.
“You did a great job there, Randy.”
“Just did what you told me to do,” said Clamm in his rapid, agitated way. “After securing the bottle, I called for the evidence team to make a return visit, go over the whole house for letters, notes, anything. I asked Mrs. Rudden for their checkbook. You mentioned that to me this morning. She gave it to me, but she didn’t know anything about it—handled it like it might be radioactive, said Albert took care of all the bills. Said she doesn’t like checks because there are numbers on them, and you got to be careful about numbers, numbers can be evil—some crap about Satan, crazy religious bullshit. Anyway, I took a look through the checkbook, and the bottom line on that is it’s going to take more time to figure it out. Albert might have paid the bills, but he wasn’t much of a record keeper. There was no reference on any of the check stubs to anyone named Arybdis or Charybdis or Scylla—that’s what I looked for first—but that doesn’t mean much, because most of the stubs had no names, just amounts, and some of them didn’t even have that. As for monthly statements, she had no idea if there were any in the house, but we’ll do a thorough search, and we’ll get her permission to get photostats from the bank. In the meantime, now that we know we’re holding two corners of the same triangle, is there anything else you want to share with me about the Mellery murder?”
Gurney thought about it. “The series of threats Mellery received prior to his murder included vague references to things he did when he was drunk. Now it turns out that Rudden had drinking problems, too.”
“You saying we’re looking for a guy who’s running around knocking off drunks?”
“Not exactly. If that’s all he wanted to do, there’d be easier ways to do it.”
“Like toss a bomb into an AA meeting?”
“Something simple. Something that would maximize his opportunity and minimize his risk. But this guy’s approach is complicated and inconvenient. Nothing easy or direct about it. Any part of it you look at raises questions.”
“Like what?”
“To start with, why would he pick victims who are so far apart geographically—and in every other way, for that matter?”
“To keep us from connecting them?”
“But he wants us to connect them. That’s the point of the peony. He wants to be noticed. Wants credit. This is not your average perp on the run. This guy wants to do battle—not just with his victims. With the police, too.”
“Speaking of that, I need to bring my lieutenant up to date. He wouldn’t be happy if he found out I called you first.”
“Where are you?”
“On my way back to the station house.”
“That would put you on Tremont Avenue?”
“How’d you know that?”
“That roar of Bronx traffic in the background. Nothing quite like it.”
“Must be nice to be somewhere else. You got any message you want me to pass along to Lieutenant Everly?”
“Better hold the messages till later. He’s going to be a lot more interested in what you have to tell him.”
Chapter 37
Bad things come in threes
Gurney had an urge to call Sheridan Kline with the decisive new evidence supporting the peony linkage, but he wanted to make one other call first. If the two cases were as parallel as they now seemed to be, it was possible not only that Rudden had been asked for money but that he had been asked to send it to that same post-office box in Wycherly, Connecticut.
Gurney took his slim case folder out of his desk drawer and located his photocopy of the brief note Gregory Dermott had sent along with the check he’d returned to Mellery. The GD Security Systems letterhead—businesslike, conservative, even a little old-fashioned—included a Wycherly-area phone number.
The call was answered on the second ring by a voice consistent with the style of the letterhead.
“Good afternoon. GD Security. May I help you?”
“I’
d like to speak to Mr. Dermott, please. This is Detective Gurney from the district attorney’s office.”
“Finally!” The vehemence that transformed the voice was startling.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re calling about the misaddressed check?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, but …?”
“I reported it six days ago—six days ago!”
“Reported what six days ago?”
“Didn’t you just say you were calling about the check?”
“Let’s start over, Mr. Dermott. It’s my understanding that Mark Mellery spoke to you approximately ten days ago about a check you’d returned to him, a check made out to ‘X. Arybdis’ and sent to your post-office box. Is that true?”
“Of course it’s true. What kind of question is that?” The man sounded furious.
“When you say that you reported it six days ago, I’m afraid I don’t—”
“The second one!”
“You received a second check?”
“Isn’t that why you’re calling?”
“Actually, sir, I was calling to ask you that very question.”
“What question?”
“Whether you’d also received a check from a man by the name of Albert Rudden.”
“Yes, Rudden was the name on the second check. That’s what I called to report. Six days ago.”
“Who did you call?”
Gurney heard a couple of long, deep breaths being taken, as though the man were trying to keep himself from exploding.
“Look, Detective, there’s a level of confusion here that I’m not happy with. I called the police six days ago to report a troubling situation. Three checks had been sent to my post-office box, addressed to an individual I’ve never heard of. Now you call me back, ostensibly regarding these checks, but you don’t seem to know what I’m talking about. What am I missing? What the hell is going on?”
“What police department did you call?”
“Mine, of course—my local Wycherly precinct. How could you not know that if you’re calling me back?”
“The fact is, sir, I’m not calling you back. I’m calling from New York State regarding the original check you returned to Mark Mellery. We weren’t aware of any additional checks. You said there were two more after the first?”
“That’s what I said.”
“One from Albert Rudden and one from someone else?”
“Yes, Detective. Is that clear now?”
“Perfectly clear. But now I’m wondering why three misaddressed checks disturbed you enough to call your local police.”
“I called my local police because the postal police whom I first notified exhibited a colossal lack of interest. Before you ask me why I called the postal police, let me say that for a policeman you have a rather dull sense of security issues.”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
“I’m in the security business, Officer—or Detective, or whatever you are. The computer-data security business. Do you have any idea how common identity theft is—or how often identity theft involves the misappropriation of addresses?”
“I see. And what did the Wycherly police do?”
“Less than the postal police, if that’s possible.”
Gurney could imagine Dermott’s phone calls receiving a lackadaisical response. Three unfamiliar people sending checks to someone’s post-office box might sound like something less than a high-priority peril.
“You did return the second and third checks to their senders, like you returned Mark Mellery’s?”
“I certainly did, and I enclosed notes asking who gave them my box number, but neither individual had the courtesy to reply.”
“Did you keep the name and address from the third check?”
“I certainly did.”
“I need that name and address right now.”
“Why? Is there something going on here I don’t know about?”
“Mark Mellery and Albert Rudden are both dead. Possible homicides.”
“Homicides? What do you mean, homicides?” Dermott’s voice had become shrill.
“They may have been murdered.”
“Oh, my God. You think this is connected with the checks?”
“Whoever gave them your post-office box address would be a person of interest in the case.”
“Oh, my God. Why my address? What connection is there to me?”
“Good question, Mr. Dermott.”
“But I never heard of anyone named Mark Mellery or Albert Rudden.”
“What was the name on the third check?”
“The third check? Oh, my God. I’ve gone completely blank.”
“You said you made a note of the name.”
“Yes, yes, of course I did. Wait. Richard Kartch. Yes, that was it. Richard Kartch. K-a-r-t-c-h. I’ll get the address. Wait, I have it here. It’s 349 Quarry Road, Sotherton, Massachusetts.”
“Got it.”
“Look, Detective, since I seem to be involved in this in some way, I’d appreciate knowing whatever you can tell me. There must be a reason my post-office box was chosen.”
“Are you sure you’re the only one who has access to that box?”
“As sure as I can be. But God knows how many postal workers have access to it. Or who might have a duplicate key that I’m not aware of.”
“The name Richard Kartch means nothing to you?”
“Nothing. I’m quite sure of that. It’s the sort of name I’d remember.”
“Okay, sir. I’d like to give you a couple of phone numbers where you can reach me. I would appreciate hearing from you immediately if anything at all occurs to you about the names of those three people, or about any access anyone else might have to your mail. And one last question. Do you recall the amounts of the second and third checks?”
“That’s easy. The second and third were the same as the first—$289.87.”
Chapter 38
A difficult man
Madeleine turned on one of the den lamps from a switch at the door. During Gurney’s conversation with Dermott, the dusk had deepened and the room was nearly dark.
“Making progress?”
“Major progress. Thanks to you.”
“My Great-Aunt Mimi had peonies,” she said.
“Which one was Mimi?”
“My father’s mother’s sister,” she said, not quite concealing her exasperation at the fact that a man so adept at juggling the details of the most complex investigation couldn’t remember half a dozen family relationships. “Your dinner is ready.”
“Well, actually …”
“It’s on the stove. Don’t forget about it.”
“You’re going out?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“I’ve told you about it twice in the past week.”
“I remember something about Thursday. The details …”
“ … escape you at the moment? Nothing new there. See you later.”
“You’re not going to tell me where …?”
Her footsteps were already receding through the kitchen to the back door.
There was no phone listing for Richard Kartch at 349 Quarry Road in Sotherton, but an Internet map search of contiguous addresses turned up names and phone numbers for 329 and 369.
The thick male voice that finally answered the call to 329 monosyllabically denied knowing anyone by the name of Kartch, knowing which house on the street 349 might be, or even knowing how long he himself had lived in the area. He sounded half comatose on alcohol or opiates, was probably lying as a matter of habit, and was clearly not going to be of any help.
The woman at 369 Quarry Road was more talkative.
“You mean the hermit?” Her way of saying it gave the epithet a creepy pathology.
“Mr. Kartch lives alone?”
“Oh, indeed he does, unless you count the rats his garbage attracts. His wife was lucky to escape. I’m not surprised you’re calling—you said you’re a police officer?”
“Special investigator with the district attorney’s office.” He knew that he ought, in the interest of full disclosure, to mention the state and county of jurisdiction, but he rationalized that the details could be filled in later.
“What’s he done now?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of, but he may be able to help with an investigation, and we need to get in touch with him. Would you happen to know where he works or what time he gets home from work?”
“Work? That’s a joke!”
“Is Mr. Kartch unemployed?”
“Try unemployable.” There was venom in her voice.
“You seem to have a real problem with him.”
“He’s a pig, he’s stupid, he’s dirty, he’s dangerous, he’s crazy, he stinks, he’s armed to the teeth, and he’s usually drunk.”
“Sounds like quite a neighbor.”
“The neighbor from hell! Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to show your home to a prospective buyer while the shirtless, beer-swilling ape next door blasts holes in a garbage can with his shotgun?”
Knowing what the answer was likely to be, he decided to ask his next question, anyway. “Would you be willing to give Mr. Kartch a message for me?”
“Are you kidding? All I’d be willing to give him is the sharp end of a stick.”
“When would he be most likely to be at home?”
“Pick a time, any time. I’ve never seen that lunatic leave his property.”
“Is there a visible house number?”
“Hah! You don’t need any number to recognize the house. It wasn’t finished when his wife left—still isn’t. No siding. No lawn. No steps to the front door. The perfect house for a total nutcase. Whoever goes there better bring a gun.”
Gurney thanked her and ended the conversation.
Now what?
Various individuals needed to be brought up to speed. First and foremost, Sheridan Kline. And, of course, Randy Clamm. Not to mention Captain Rodriguez and Jack Hardwick. The question was whom to call first. He decided they could all wait another few minutes. Instead he got the number of the Sotherton, Massachusetts, police department from information.