A Cast of Killers

by Gallagher Gray

  "Hey, Santos." The beefy desk sergeant stuck his head in the door and bellowed: "Some big black dude is here to see you. Says he's got someone with him you should meet." The sergeant rolled his eyes and twirled a finger by his head.

  "It's Franklin." Auntie Lil knew at once.

  "Send him in," Santos ordered. A few seconds later, Franklin entered the room, his enormous bulk dwarfing the slight figure of his companion—a funny old man with half a shaved head, uneven beard stubble and rummy eyes.

  "I found him," Franklin declared with satisfaction. "Living under the Manhattan Bridge. He saw The Eagle put the poison in Miss Emily's chili. And he's all yours, Mr. Santos. Right?"

  Franklin's companion fixed his unnaturally bright eyes on the detective and wheezed his way into speaking like a car getting started on a cold morning. "Yeah. Yeah. Yup. Yup. I seen it all right. And I don't mind saying so if you keep his evil eye away from me. You just point me to where I should stand."

  Santos looked at T.S. skeptically.

  "It's better than nothing," T.S. said with a shrug.

  The detective looked at T.S. "You could be right," he finally admitted. "You have been right before." He gestured for the man to sit at the table and took out his pencil with a sigh. What was one more statement after an entire night of taking notes?

  Margo McGregor kept her part of her bargain. Two days later, the following column appeared as the first in what would become a series of columns clearing Bob Fleming and detailing Emily's death. It ran across from the editorial pages of the Sunday edition of New York Newsday, landing in nearly three million homes throughout the metropolitan area:

  IT IS TIME TO TURN TO EACH OTHER

  New York City is a city with invisible walls as insurmountable as any barrier the world has to offer. These walls separate the rich from the poor, pit black against white and, too often, turn the young against the old. Yet, sometimes we find ourselves breaching these walls in unexpected ways. Those are the times when I am proudest to be a New Yorker. A New Yorker like Emily Toujours.

  Two weeks ago Emily died in a Manhattan soup kitchen. She was an old woman, maybe homeless and definitely hungry. In short, her death wasn't big news. Until you take a closer look at her life: after an absence of decades, Emily had returned to the city three years ago, hoping to live out her final years near the stage. She had enough money for a small apartment and, always, orchestra tickets. She did not always have enough money for food. It is probable that Emily found a Broadway much different from the Broadway she remembered. At least until the curtain went up. But even with the grime and the danger that had invaded its streets, her friends say that Emily never stopped loving New York—or the people who live here.

  But it turned out that Emily had died as she had lived much of her life—under a stage name. And even then, no one was really quite sure that it was anything but "Emily." She had nothing on her to say who she really was or even to indicate where she lived. And her friends discovered that, among them, no one knew her real name. It appeared that her "Emily" identity would die with her. Despite the dismay of her friends, Emily was assigned a number and left to wait a week in a chilled city locker. Perhaps someone would step up to claim her. If not, there was Potter's Field.

  Unexpectedly, someone did step up. Many someone’s, in fact. All of them New Yorkers like Emily. People who refused to forget. Her friends at the soup kitchen—more than two dozen in all—would not let Emily die unknown. "She has a family somewhere," they told each other. "She deserves to be mourned."

  They mounted a campaign to find out her true identity. And if anyone among them doubted Emily's love for drama, they've stopped doubting now: though her real name remained a mystery, her friends discovered that Emily had been poisoned. Who would bother to murder an unknown, nearly penniless, old woman? It was a puzzle that our overburdened police force could not afford to solve. But her friends would not let it go. Young and old, black and white and, yes, even rich and poor, they banded together to unravel why Emily had died.

  They found that she died giving of herself to others. Emily Toujours, an old woman who only weighed 84 pounds at her autopsy, died because she tried to help two young runaway boys leave our streets. One boy was black and the other was white. Both of them called her "Grandma." There's nothing really special about either of these boys. They're the kind of kids the rest of us pass by every day. They smirk and make us uncomfortable. We, in turn, make them invisible.

  But they weren't invisible to Emily. She turned to every agency, every hotline, every task force and every department in this city for help. Logs show she made more than 85 phone calls in all. What she wanted was someone, anyone, to show her a way to save two young boys from our streets. What she found instead was disinterest, apathy, discouragement and just plain exhaustion. And, like so many other New Yorkers, I am among the guilty ones.

  Left to her own, Emily did what she could to encourage the boys to leave New York. She opened her home and what little money she had to two young men she hardly knew. For no apparent reason other than a belief that, even here in New York City, children should be allowed to be children.

  Unfortunately for Emily, her plans threatened someone with money and power. That someone apparently paid to have her killed. But he made a classic mistake. He underestimated the determination of Emily's fellow New Yorkers. Thanks to their continued efforts and the help of a NYPD detective who can still find it in his heart to believe in justice, Emily's killers are now behind bars. In death, she beat the odds in New York City: her murder will be marked "solved."

  In many ways, Emily triumphed. One of the boys is now off the streets. He has a home and someone to care for him. The other lies in a hospital bed, his future uncertain. But at least the hold of the streets has been broken, albeit along with his bones.

  In other ways, Emily continues to fight. She still lies in a city locker on the East Side of Manhattan. And her friends still refuse to give up the search for her real name.

  Whether "Emily Toujours" is a real name or not, Emily was definitely a real New Yorker. And her story is a real New York tale, with a moral that holds meaning for all of us: today, in what used to be the greatest city in the world, we often have no one to turn to but ourselves. If we're going to make it at all, we're going to make it by helping each other. So, for God's sake, tear those walls down.

  Rest in peace, Emily. Whoever you are. And many thanks for the lesson.

  New Yorkers are not a sentimental lot, especially about themselves. Response to the column was just a notch below the reaction that Margo McGregor had received for revealing that the fix was in at the last Madison Square Garden cat show. But, two days later, the column was picked up on the AP wire and landed in fifty million more homes all across America. Including a small clapboard farmhouse a few miles outside of Devils Lake, North Dakota.

  Margo McGregor had just returned from a lunch date with Detective Santos when the telephone on her desk rang. Casting caution to the wind, she decided to answer. She was in a good mood—she could handle any kook in the world that day.

  "Margo McGregor," she said crisply and was answered by an oddly important silence. The quiet gave way to what seemed at first to be static. Then the columnist realized that it was the sound of someone crying very far away.

  "You found my mother," a muffled voice told her.

  Margo McGregor broke unexpectedly into tears.

  Exactly two weeks to the day after Emily's death, they held the funeral at St. Barnabas. Eva had been buried by the Franciscan sisters several days before. Now, it was time to tell Emily goodbye.

  It was a true Indian-summer day. White clouds scuttled across the blue sky above the Hudson and private planes buzzed down the river corridor in enthusiastic confusion. The mournful toot of a liner pulling away from the dock signaled the hour before noon. The assembled mourners shifted on the front steps of St. Barnabas, unwilling to leave the bright day behind.

  Among them were T.S. and Auntie Lil. They scanne
d the arrivals, looking for friends. As they waited, a small man dressed in tan with a huge bulbous nose hurried up the steps toward them. He tipped his hat to Auntie Lil and hurried by.

  "Wait," she called after him. "I owe you a thank-you."

  He shook his head, bowed deeply and disappeared inside.

  "Who's that?" Auntie Lil asked, pointing to Eighth Avenue.

  "If I didn't know better, I'd think it was Little Pete."

  Nellie was hustling the small boy down the sidewalk, lecturing into his ear. She wore a voluminous flowered dress that flapped in the wind and she was desperately trying to keep her hat on with one hand while subduing her skirt with the other. Suddenly, a gust of wind sent her dress flying up to her waist and her hat tumbling down the sidewalk. Little Pete dashed forward and rescued the hat inches from the gutter. He ran back with his prize and they laughed together, heads thrown back, before slapping their palms in a gleeful high five.

  "It's going to work," T.S. predicted.

  "Thank God," Auntie Lil agreed.

  Nellie and Little Pete stopped to shake hands with them before entering the church.

  "You look exceptionally beautiful today," T.S. told her. "And Pete, my man, I have to say that you're absolutely stunning."

  Little Pete eyed him carefully, trying to decide if he was being teased or not.

  "He ought to look stunning," Nellie interrupted. "I figure this suit took me 843 meat pies worth of profit. Of course, Granny here ate about half of them." She looped an arm over Little Pete's shoulders and smiled at Auntie Lil. "You come in next week for my goat curry, okay?"

  Auntie Lil agreed enthusiastically.

  T.S. and Auntie Lil watched them enter the church together. "It's gonna work," T.S. predicted again. "Hey," T.S. elbowed Auntie Lil, but when she saw why, she didn't mind a bit. Detective Santos was trying to sneak in the far door of the church and it looked like he had Margo McGregor with him. "Is that a romantic first date or what?" T.S. asked. "He's taking her to a funeral."

  "I don't think it's their first date, Theodore, dear. And let's just be grateful he didn't take her to the Westsider."

  "That's funny. He looks like he's avoiding us."

  "What's funny about that?" Auntie Lil admitted. "I find it quite sensible."

  "I knew I'd see you here!" Billy Finnegan was the next to arrive and he had his entire family in tow. Megan looked like a miniature version of her mother, but clearly hated the full skirt of her dress. Billy's son, Michael, looked like a miniature version of his father, down to the hair still wet from a water combing.

  "Don't you look like quite the little man," Auntie Lil ventured in a burst of goodwill toward the child.

  Michael scowled and grabbed at his collar with a chubby fist. "Laragh," he gargled as if he were choking.

  His mother slapped his hand away from his collar with the speed of a rattlesnake striking. "Michael," she warned slowly. The single word was enough. The small boy stole a peek at Auntie Lil and stuck out his tongue.

  "I'm going to be a detective when I grow up," Megan announced to Auntie Lil, unexpectedly slipping her tiny hand into hers. Auntie Lil found herself deeply touched. It was such a small and warm and trusting hand. My goodness, children were innocent.

  "A detective?" Auntie Lil echoed.

  Megan nodded. "Yes. I'm going to grow up and be just like you." She beamed up at Auntie Lil. Auntie Lil beamed back.

  "Let's go, Megan," her mother ordered, and the small girl dutifully followed her family inside.

  T.S. was staring at Auntie Lil strangely. "You were nice to that child," he said incredulously.

  "She's an unusual child with unusually good taste for someone so young," Auntie Lil defended herself. "She wants to grow up to be me."

  "Here comes Franklin." T.S. pointed out a huge figure headed up Eighth Avenue. "And it looks like he has someone with him."

  Auntie Lil burst out laughing. "It has to be his brother."

  Indeed it was. They were twin giants, as alike in size and coloring as two bears.

  "Mr. Hubbert, Miss Hubbert," Franklin said when he reached their step. "I'd like you to meet my brother, Samuel. We'll be heading home to South Carolina tomorrow. I wanted the chance to tell Miss Emily and all of you goodbye."

  "Franklin. Samuel—how nice to meet you." Auntie Lil grasped each of their hands in turn and T.S. could have sworn that she gulped. He even thought that he saw tears glistening on her eyelashes.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the well-timed arrival of Adelle and her followers. The group swept past in a flurry of black silk and rustling, not unmindful of the handful of photographers who had arrived to capture the requisite heartwarming shot in case no sensational murders popped up that day.

  "Black net is making a comeback," T.S. observed.

  "With that crowd, it never left." Auntie Lil waved enthusiastically as a scurrying Herbert hurried up the steps to their side.

  "I am not late?" he asked anxiously, straightening his tie and smoothing down his thinning hair with one palm.

  "Not at all. And don't you look marvelous. Isn't that a wonderful suit, Theodore? Theodore? Theodore.?''

  T.S. did not hear her. A long black limousine had pulled up to the curb and an elegant figure was unfolding from the back. Lilah wore a simple black knit dress and a strand of real pearls. Her hair shone in the sunlight.

  "What on earth are you looking so green for, Theodore?" Auntie Lil demanded.

  The answers to her question emerged from the car behind their mother. Two young ladies in their late teens, each dressed in navy, stood on the sidewalk clutching their purses and shyly eyeing T.S. He was acutely aware that Lilah must have described him to her daughters. He wondered what she had said.

  Herbert tactfully hustled Auntie Lil inside the church, providing T.S. with privacy.

  "Theodore." Lilah kissed him on each cheek and the familiar smell of her gardenia perfume gave him strength. "This is Alicia. And this is Isabel."

  T.S. nodded and managed a smile. Alicia and Isabel ducked their heads together, giggling, and looked up at him from under long eyelashes.

  Any nervousness he felt was erased a few seconds later when he distinctly heard one of the daughters whisper: "He looks kind of like an older version of that actor, Richard Gere."

  "Yeah," said the other. "Except really, really old."

  Well, he would take his compliments where he could get them. He straightened his tie and escorted Lilah inside.

  Vase after vase of lilies and gladiolus lined the walls on either side of the church. The smell of flowers wafted through the pews and sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, sending tongues of red and purple and blue tumbling exuberantly across the marble floor. The front doors were propped open and fresh air and sunshine poured down the aisle, filling the church with the promise of the living. It seemed more of a beginning than a goodbye. It was appropriate for Emily.

  "Look at all these flowers," T.S. said. "Who in the world paid for them?"

  Lilah patted his hand discreetly. "Let's just say that a grateful friend of mine who no longer has to back a certain show about Davy Crockett decided that he'd like to make a small gesture of his appreciation."

  T.S. stared at the rows of people filling the church. Many were neighborhood residents, some were nothing more than curiosity seekers. A few were strangers, but even more were his new friends. He recognized many of them from the soup kitchen and it was hard to tell the volunteers from the homeless. Everyone was well scrubbed, subdued and seemingly at peace. Bob Fleming sat stiffly in a shirt and tie in a front pew, next to a radiantly healthy Annie O'Day, who looked equally uncomfortable in her dress. T.S. smiled. They were perfect for one another. Bob would need someone like Annie to help him rebuild.

  Emily's coffin gleamed in the filtered sunlight, its rich brown mahogany finish glowing with the reflected glory of the stained glass.

  "Good Lord," T.S. whispered. "You really went all out on that thing. It's big enough to
hold Orson Welles."

  "It's my money, Theodore," Lilah reminded him sweetly. "I have scads of it and I intend to spend it however I like."

  "Well, then why don't you throw a few handfuls at poor Bob Fleming?" T.S. whispered. "Homefront really needs it right now."

  "I know. And I will." Lilah patted his hand and shot him a private smile.

  They found their seats next to Auntie Lil and Herbert. T.S. was well content to sit between the two women he loved most.

  Father Stebbins conducted the ceremony with a majestic and tasteful demeanor that surprised both T.S. and Auntie Lil. In his skillful hands, the sometimes ghoulish ceremony of wafting incense around the coffin was transformed into an ancient and vital farewell to the dead. His eulogy, of course, was peppered with cliché after cliché. After all, a leopard doesn't change his spots. But, somehow, it all seemed entirely appropriate. More to the point, he kept it short.

  In fact, when he sat down after only a few minutes of speaking, T.S. stared at Auntie Lil in some puzzlement. This was not the Father Stebbins that they knew. But his reason for brevity soon presented itself.

  A small woman had been sitting quietly in the front row. She was the kind of woman that was easy to overlook. She wore a simple blue dress and sensible shoes. Her face was plain and unadorned; her hair a dull brown cut in a functional bob.

  No one, in fact, would have been likely to notice her had she not risen and walked to the podium when Father Stebbins was done.

  "My name is Julia Hansen," the woman began. Her voice was hushed but it had great strength in it. "You don't know who I am, but I will be forever grateful to all of you for what you did for my mother. You were the most loyal and loving friends that she could ever have had and I see now that she was right about New York City.

  "You have shown a great deal of love toward a woman you hardly knew. So I'd like to tell you a little about her. My mother was not alone in this world. She was, in fact, loved very much—by her husband and by me. She lived most of her life on a farm in North Dakota. And I think that she was very happy. But after my father died, there was nothing that my husband and I could do to stop her from moving back here to New York. I don't even think that I tried very hard to stop her. I remembered too well how, when I was a child, she would read about all the new plays on Broadway and how excited she would get when, sometimes, she even recognized the name of a friend. She would take me to every touring production that ever came through town. I knew that my mother had never, ever stopped loving the theater.