SW04 - The Naked Typist

by Parnell Hall

  “Here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dirkson would have liked a little more than that, but realized Reese couldn’t say anything with Castleton right there. “All right,” he said. “Show him in.”

  Dirkson had never seen Castleton before. He knew who he was, of course, but had never actually met him.

  It was a bit of a shock. Dirkson’s first thought was, Christ, he should be in a wheelchair. Castleton was walking, but obviously with great effort. Two men were supporting him, one on either side, which made it hard getting in the door. One man was plump and bald, the other tall and thin. They guided Castleton up to the desk and seated him in the chair A.D.A. Crawford had vacated when they entered the room.

  Castleton gripped the arms of the chair and held on tight. The man was so frail, the impression Dirkson got was that he was holding on to keep from falling off.

  The plump, bald man spoke. “Mr. Dirkson, this is Milton Castleton.” Then, indicating the tall man, “His son, Stanley Castleton. I’m Mr. Castleton’s business associate, Phil Danby.”

  Danby didn’t feel the need to indicate which Mr. Castleton he meant. That was obvious. In fact, Dirkson was surprised to find the tall, ineffectual man with the weak chin was Castleton’s son and Danby the associate, rather than the other way around.

  “Yes, Mr. Castleton,” Dirkson said. “This is a pleasure.” Then, realizing it wasn’t, added, “I’m sorry we have to meet at such trying times.”

  Castleton might not have heard him. He dug his fingers into the arm of the chair, pulled his slim, frail body erect. “She killed my grandson,” he said.

  “Yes, sir. I know.”

  “She has to pay.”

  “She will, sir. That I promise.”

  “Good,” Castleton said. “We will help. Anything you need, you’ve got.” Castleton’s right hand pointed slightly to Phil Danby. “This is Mr. Danby. You want me, you call him. Anything you want, he will do.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dirkson said. He waited for another directive regarding Stanley Castleton, the son. None came.

  Dirkson took a breath, wondering what to say next. “Is there anything we can do, Mr. Castleton?”

  “Convict her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you need me to testify, I will testify. I am old. I am sick. But I can do it. Don’t keep me off the stand because you think I’m a sick old man.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dirkson said. “Ah, what would you testify to?”

  “How she tricked me into hiring her and then sued me. Part of a vindictive campaign because of her brother. That she made threats leading us to believe that she had been involved in industrial espionage. That she set up the meeting with my grandson and then killed him.”

  “I see,” Dirkson said.

  “Most of this, Phil Danby will testify to, as the go-between. But I confirm what he says. My name lends weight.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dirkson said. He hesitated. “You understand, the testimony regarding her employment ... ?”

  “Yes?”

  “It is going to come out that the employment was somewhat unusual.”

  “She worked nude,” Castleton said. “My secretaries work nude. I’m an old man, but I still like to look at naked women. Does that bother you?”

  Dirkson gulped. “No, sir.”

  “Good. Then it doesn’t bother me. And I don’t give a damn who knows it. So don’t pull your punches any.”

  A.D.A. Crawford had been hovering in the corner. Castleton seemed to see him for the first time. He jerked his thumb in his direction. “Who’s he?”

  “Oh,” Dirkson said. “This is A.D.A. Crawford. I was just briefing him on the case. He’ll be handling the prosecution.”

  Castleton didn’t even look at Crawford. He stared straight up at Dirkson. “You,” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “You will be prosecuting.”

  Dirkson cleared his throat. “No, sir. I will be supervising the prosecution as district attorney, and Mr. Crawford will be reporting directly to me.”

  Castleton didn’t bother shaking his head, but the eyes in the emaciated face burned into those of the district attorney. “You will be prosecuting,” he said evenly.

  Dirkson took a breath. Castleton was not just a wealthy man, he was a connected wealthy man. Without actually checking, it would be impossible to tell just how many campaign contributions were directly influenced by him. Even with checking, it might be impossible to tell. But the man’s influence was certainly extensive.

  Dirkson nodded. “Yes, sir. Me.”

  24.

  STEVE WINSLOW LOOKED AT THE newspapers spread out on Mark Taylor’s desk. “NAKED TYPIST SLAY SUSPECT” was the headline in the Post. The Daily News had “CASTLETON KILLER TYPED NUDE.”

  Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yeah,” Taylor said. “And that’s just the ones they’re printing. You should hear some of the stuff the guys are making up.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Oh,” Taylor said. He ran his hand over an imaginary headline. “Like, ‘COPS HAVE NOTHING ON HER AND NEITHER HAS SHE.’”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah. Or, ‘AT LEAST SHE WASN’T CARRYING ANY CONCEALED WEAPONS.’”

  “That’s not a headline.”

  “Hey, let’s not quibble. The point is, it’s just as bad as you feared. Your client’s a laughingstock, the story’s page one, and this case is going to be decided in the press before it ever gets to trial.”

  “I know, Mark.”

  “The other bad news is, we’re dead wrong as usual. Dirkson’s gonna prosecute.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. It’s not official yet, but I have it on good authority. Word is he wasn’t gonna, but Castleton paid him a little visit yesterday and turned him around.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  “Yeah, it’s bad news in more ways than one. You’re going up against the D.A. with Castleton’s weight behind him. That’s a formidable combination. The scary part is, Dirkson’s sharp. If there’s the slightest leak about my involvement in this case, Dirkson will pick up on it. A young A.D.A. might miss it, but Dirkson won’t.”

  “Let’s not go through that again.”

  “No, let’s not. Believe me, I’m never going through this again.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Steve said impatiently. “You got anything for me besides the voice of doom?”

  “Yeah, but it ain’t good.” Taylor flipped open his notebook. “Stanley Castleton. Basic wimp. Weak, ineffectual, yes man to Milton Castleton. Position in company due solely to accident of birth. Puppet, at best. Wouldn’t go to the bathroom without checking with dad. Fifty-two years old, married thirty years to same woman, Helen Castleton, nee Greenfield, union produced one son, David.”

  Taylor flipped the page. “House in White Plains. Marriage still intact. Stanley Castleton not known to have any mistress, girlfriend, or otherwise fool around. No predilection for gambling, dope or booze. Staid family man. Hobbies are—get this—coin and stamp collecting.”

  Taylor looked up from his notes. “You wanna make a case a man like that killed his only son, good luck.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “What about the stamp and coin collecting?”

  “What about it?”

  “How extensive is this collection? Castleton plunkin’ down any large sums for any rare coins?”

  “Nice try, but the answer’s no. The guy’s a tightwad and a penny-pincher. Best information we got, the most he ever spent on a coin was fifty bucks. And then it took him two weeks to decide if he was gonna spring for the damn thing.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, I know, Steve. We’ve gone through his background with a fine-tooth comb. I wish I could tell you the guy had some weakness, that he’d been claiming business trips and actually nippin’ off to Atlantic City to the casinos, but it just isn’t so. The guy is your basic stick-in-the-mud.”

  “But he’s the nominal head of
Castleton Industries.”

  “Very nominal. Milton Castleton still runs the show, and everyone knows it.”

  “Yeah. Until he dies.”

  “What?”

  “Milton Castleton is a sick man. He’s not gonna last forever. So what happens when he dies? What does Stanley Castleton do then?”

  “That’ll be up to him. Daddy may have left him some guidelines, but he doesn’t have to follow them. It’ll be his company then.”

  “Will it?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Just a thought, Mark. Right now Stanley Castleton’s in charge. Nominally, as you say. And one assumes he’d take over when the old man dies. But would he?”

  Mark Taylor frowned. “Whaddya mean?”

  “Well, he would now, that’s for sure. But if David hadn’t died.”

  “What are you getting at, Steve?”

  “From everything you told me, there’s no way Stanley Castleton could run the company.”

  “So?”

  “So Milton Castleton must know that. He must have been taking that into account. He’s old and sick, and he can’t last much longer. But he’s a fighter, and he’s got an interest in this empire he built up.”

  “I’m trying to follow this, but—”

  “I’m talking about the line of succession. You say Stanley Castleton would take over after his father’s death, but what if he wouldn’t? I mean, here’s Castleton’s son—weak, ineffectual, everything Castleton isn’t. And here’s the grandson—young, sharp, aggressive, just coming in to his own. A go-getter, playboy type, a chip off the old block.”

  “Are you saying—”

  “Sure I am. What if Castleton’s plan was to bypass old Stanley and put David in charge?”

  “Could he do that?”

  “How the hell should I know? It’s just an idea. If he was planning that and Stanley found out, he just might not like it too much.”

  “So he kills his own son?”

  “Hey, Mark, isn’t it the quiet, repressed types that always take a chainsaw to their family and wind up on the front page of the Daily News?”

  Taylor shook his head gloomily. “I suppose so. As a theory, I can’t say I like it much.”

  “Me neither. But let’s not pass it up. Get your men digging around, see what you can get.”

  Taylor scribbled a note. “Okay, will do.”

  “What about Danby?”

  Taylor shook his head. “There again, it’s a dead end. Company man, fifteen years with the firm. Business manager, troubleshooter, whatever you want to call him—has no official title I can tell. Basically, Milton Castleton’s right hand. No personal interest in the company. Just your basic hundred-grand-a-year wage slave.

  “Vices, none. Doesn’t drink, smoke, gamble or do drugs. Single, never been married, doesn’t chase after women. Not gay, either, just not interested. Workaholic. Married to his job.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, why couldn’t one of these guys turn out to be a child molester or something you could use? Anyway, I got nothing.”

  “Where was he that night?”

  “If you mean an alibi, I assume he hasn’t got one. The guy lives alone. But these people are all hostile and won’t talk to us. And the cops aren’t askin’ ’cause they don’t give a shit—they got their murderer. So there you are.”

  “Yeah. What about the roommate? Jeff Bowers?”

  “A little better there. He’s a young guy, twenty-nine, an actor, hangs around with the theater crowd and might be into drugs. But what the hell does that get you? He’s got no connection at all to Castleton Industries except for Herbert Clay.”

  “That could be enough.”

  “Anyway, he’s got an alibi for the time of the murder. He was on stage in a show.”

  “That late at night?”

  “So he says. I’m checkin’ it out, but why would he claim something so easy to verify if it wasn’t true?”

  Steve rubbed his head. “Jesus. One dead end after another. You got anything else?”

  Taylor frowned. “I got a suggestion. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Well, it’s really none of my business. But we’re friends, so I’m gonna say it.”

  “What’s that, Mark?”

  “I been thinking this ever since I heard Dirkson was prosecuting himself.” He gestured to the newspapers on his desk—”And ever since I saw this.

  “You got a problem with this case, Steve. In more ways than one. The girl typin’ nude—well, that’s a big bummer. You can fight to keep it out of court, but so what. It’ll be like the Oliver North trial. You’re not gonna find twelve people in all of Manhattan who haven’t heard about it.”

  “I know that. So?”

  “So the people on the jury are gonna know. And human nature bein’ what it is, at least half of them are gonna think a girl who runs around nude is the type of girl who’d kill someone.”

  “I know that Mark. What’s the point?”

  “The point is, you got a big image problem. You want to build your client up, make her seem respectable, make her seem the type of girl who wouldn’t kill someone. It’s not gonna be easy, and, frankly, you being her lawyer isn’t gonna help.”

  Steve looked at him. Taylor held up his hands. “Hey, no offense, but I gotta say it. Imagewise, you’re the wrong lawyer for the case. You look like a refugee from the sixties. Ordinarily that’s all right, but this time it isn’t gonna play. The girl doesn’t need a hippie standing next to her. She needs someone respectable and conservative. Some pillar of the community whose presence would build up her image.”

  “You telling me to get off the case, Mark?”

  Taylor shook his head. “No. I’m only suggesting you might secure associate counsel.”

  “You mean Fitzpatrick?”

  “I was thinking of Fitzpatrick. He’s just the right image. The white hair, the three-piece suit. Plus he’s overweight and got chubby cheeks, the well-fed, prosperous look. Fitzpatrick, Blackburn and Weed is a prestigious, conservative firm. His standing up for the girl would lend weight.

  “Of course, I’m not sure if Fitzpatrick would want to work with you again.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mark.”

  “You know what I mean. Look, Steve, maybe I’m out of line, it just seems to me having Fitzpatrick on the team might help. I hope you’re not offended.”

  Steve thought a moment. “No, I’m not offended, Mark. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

  25.

  HAROLD FITZPATRICK RAN A HAND through his curly white hair, cocked his head at Steve Winslow and said, “I understand you have a case.”

  Steve Winslow looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Fitzpatrick said.

  “You,” Steve said. He jerked his thumb at the newspaper lying on Fitzpatrick’s desk. “It’s on the front page of the Daily News, but you understand I have a case.”

  Fitzpatrick smiled. “You don’t like my choice of words? All right, I know you have a case. This girl—the naked one—tell me, how is she?”

  “Not too well. She’s in jail.”

  “I know that. I mean, what is she like?”

  “She has large breasts.”

  Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Dear, dear.”

  “And she’s spunky.”

  “Spunky?” Fitzpatrick grimaced. “Even worse. Juries don’t like spunky.”

  “Yeah,” Steve said. “I can strap her down and dress her like a Sunday-school teacher, but it’s not gonna fool anyone.”

  Fitzpatrick jerked his thumb at the newspaper. “Not with this kind of publicity. So how you gonna play it?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I see.”

  Steve Winslow glanced around Fitzpatrick’s sumptuously furnished office. “So how’s things with the firm?”

  “Could be worse, “ Fitzpatrick said. “Could be a lot worse. In poi
nt of fact, we’re actually doing very well.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Steve said. “A firm like this, I would imagine things were pretty steady.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you have an established clientele. You don’t take on new clients all the time.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded. “That’s largely true. A good percentage of our clients have been with the firm twenty, thirty years. That’s the way it is with firms of our type. Of course, we do pick up a new client now and then.”

  “Did appearing in court with me hurt you any?”

  Fitzpatrick shook his head. “Not at all. It might have if we’d lost, but we won. We actually picked up clients from it.”

  “Oh?”

  Fitzpatrick chuckled. “Yeah. I was a celebrity for a while. People would come up to me at cocktail parties, say, ‘You defended in the Harding case, didn’t you?’ People actually came over to our firm, which is strange when you think of it. Because our type of client isn’t looking for a criminal lawyer. Quite the contrary. I guess it was a status thing. Snob appeal. Like saying F. Lee Bailey’s my lawyer, you know?” Fitzpatrick shook his head. “No, that case didn’t hurt me at all.”

  Fitzpatrick grinned. His eyes were shining. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just making conversation.”

  Fitzpatrick nodded judiciously. “Right, right. You got a murder case you’re defending, so you just pop over here to make a little conversation.”

  “Well, I was wondering about your courtroom experience.”

  “What about it?”

  “When the case was over, you expressed the opinion that you doubted if we’d be working together again soon.”

  “As I recall, I did say something like that.”

  “I was wondering if you were still of that opinion.”

  Fitzpatrick pursed his lips. “Are you asking me to work on this case?”

  “No.”

  Fitzpatrick frowned. “No?”

  “No,” Steve said. “It would be highly detrimental to my client to ask for help from such a prestigious firm and be turned down. And I do hate lying to the press.”

  “That’s a failing in a lawyer,” Fitzpatrick deadpanned.

  “Anyway, I prefer to talk hypothetically. I’m wondering if that were the case, what your reaction would be.”