Dead Famous

by Carol O'Connell

  “I thought you were a shrink.” The young woman stared at the prescriptions, dubious now, maybe wondering if this was illegal.

  “I was a psychiatrist,” said Johanna, “so I also have a medical degree. I’m sorry about the cat. I did try to warn you about the—”

  “Can’t you do anything for him? An operation or something?”

  “There was an operation. A veterinary surgeon severed the damaged nerve so Mugs wouldn’t feel the pain anymore. But he’d lived with it for too long before I found him. Now he only feels the phantom nerve, but the pain is very real to Mugs. The cat’s quite insane. Perfect pet for a shrink, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And you still keep him.”

  Johanna suspected that this cat lover’s approval was genuine. “Yes, I keep him. No one else would have him.” She turned to leave the bathroom.

  “Not yet, Dr. Apollo.” The policewoman handed her a second warrant, this one for a personal search. “Sorry,” she said, as she pulled on a pair of plastic gloves.

  So this would be a very personal search. Johanna could even guess the order of violation: first oral, then vaginal, then anal.

  “You’ll have to remove all your clothes.” The officer touched the collar of the denim jacket. “I remember this.” She looked down at Johanna’s legs. “And those are the same jeans you wore this morning, right?”

  Johanna nodded as she removed her jacket, then pulled her sweatshirt over her head, catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. The deformity was more grotesque in the fleshy knotted muscles curving into a hump. The younger woman turned away, not enjoying this moment. Johanna removed her jeans, eyes fixed on the floor. She felt the heat rising in her face, the deep red flush of humiliation, as she unhooked her bra.

  “You can keep the underwear on.” The policewoman removed her gloves in a giveaway act of compassion. There would be no cavity search today.

  “Thank you,” said Johanna.

  The officer gave her a curt nod. “But if anyone asks—”

  “Understood. I’ll tell them you were very thorough.”

  “I don’t know why that detective even ordered it. Flynn says we’re only looking for documents. Letters, records.”

  Johanna nodded. These were the sort of things she had destroyed on the day when Timothy Kidd was murdered.

  The policewoman searched a pocket of Johanna’s jacket where the bundle of letters had recently rested. All she found was spare change, a subway token, and some folding money, all of which she handed to Johanna. “We’re taking your clothes with us. You’ll get a receipt for everything.” She nodded toward the robe hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. “Why don’t you put that on?”

  Johanna wrapped the robe about her and watched her work boots and socks disappear into a plastic bag. Barefoot, she followed the policewoman into the front room, where Mugs was in the hissing mode, and men were testing couch cushions for suspicious lumps. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied on the floor. One man had climbed on top of a table, scratching the finish with his shoes as he reached up to unscrew the overhead light fixture.

  Detective Flynn stood by the armoire desk, where financial records had been piled to cure its recently raided appearance. His low whistle gave away the discovery of her stock portfolio and an income in the highest tax bracket. Now there would be questions about her most recent employment and the unhealthy interest in crime scenes. She was a woman of means. No need to work for her living. And she lived in a hotel suite, while these people rented small, cramped apartments on the wages of civil servants.

  Yes, she would have a great deal to answer for.

  The policewoman guided her to a kitchen chair that had been dragged into the front room for no other purpose than to deny her comfort. Johanna sat down on the hard wood, wrapping the robe closer about her person. The searchers circled around her in their travels, never making eye contact, treating her as a floor lamp or an incidental table in their way. Detective Flynn pulled up another straight-back chair, though his was padded with embroidered upholstery. He turned it around to straddle it and rest his arms on the back. He seemed so relaxed while Johanna shifted in her own chair. She understood why he had requested a full cavity search, a probe of every orifice in her body. That kind of trauma was most efficient in tearing down a suspect’s ego. She also realized that it was nothing personal.

  This time it would be different from her interview with the Chicago police. This New York detective would not invite her to visit his station house. The hotel room was an excellent choice for an interrogation, no lawyers around to prevent them from stripping her to a flimsy bathrobe and rattling her with ongoing violations of her life, her personal letters and—

  The uniformed officer stood in the narrow hallway that led to the bedroom. She sought out Johanna’s eyes to beg some explanation for the child-size pair of dancing shoes, black patent leather with metal cleats at toe and heel. The concept of a tap-dancing hunchback was too difficult for this young woman.

  Johanna only shrugged to say, Old dreams. I guess you had them, too.

  She had been eleven years old when thoracic kyphosis had become so apparent that it could no longer be put off to bad posture. Dancing classes had been cancelled for the remainder of childhood. It was too hard to tap dance in a heavy brace that could not fly with her across the long, mirrored classroom, and no one could do the Buffalo Shuffle in body armor.

  The policewoman put the lid on the old shoe-box dream and returned to the bedroom to continue the search.

  Johanna faced Detective Flynn. Everything about this man, his posture and his eyes, informed her that his power was unlimited, all but saying to her, Give up—you’re lost— you’re mine. She shrank in size. She had no substance in this room. It belonged to them now, the searchers. She was the visitor here.

  A man with plastic gloves was examining the drawer of wine bottles, and she ceased to breathe for a moment. Through the open bathroom door, she could hear the sounds of the medicine cabinet being ransacked. They would find all the pain medication, the pills to help her sleep and others to keep her awake. What would they make of the large store of pet tranquilizers? They would note her brand of toothpaste, examine the underwear in her hamper, attracted by spots of blood, and follow the scent of menstruation to the tampon in the trash basket. Would the searcher be delighted with this find—this perfect sample of DNA? Would he fold this treasure away in an evidence bag?

  And what would the tag say? Lady on the rag?

  Her toes curled as her bare feet drew back under the chair. “What do you want?”

  Flynn was looking past her, as if the pictures on the wall were more interesting to him. “Most people go their whole lives and never stumble on a murder victim.” He turned his eyes to hers, and his voice doubled in volume. “You found two dead bodies, lady! An FBI agent back in Chicago and that poor homeless bum this morning.” He leaned far forward, startling her, and she recoiled. “That would’ve been enough to get my attention, but both of ’em had their throats slit. The Chicago cops tell me you made a little bonfire in your office wastebasket before you called 911. You destroyed all your patient records. And all the while, there’s a man bleeding to death in your waiting room.”

  “He was dead when I found him.”

  “You’re pretty cool under pressure, Doctor.”

  No, she was more vulnerable now.

  “So, Dr. Apollo, you wanna cut the crap and—”

  “Sir?” A man in uniform waited for the detective to acknowledge him before he said, “You have to stop the interview. There’s a guy downstairs in the lobby. He says—”

  “Hold it!” Flynn put up one hand in the manner of a traffic cop, and the other man fell silent. The detective turned on Johanna. “You called a damn lawyer, didn’t you? You knew we were coming. Who tipped you off, Doctor? Was it Riker?” Not waiting for an answer, he fired his next question at the man in uniform. “Chase down that bastard Riker and drag him in. Now!”

 
“Wait,” said Johanna. “About that man in the lobby.” She dipped one hand into the pocket of her robe where she had put the money taken from her blue jeans. “I’ve got at least fifty dollars here. I’m betting he’s not an attorney. Put up or shut up, Detective.”

  But Flynn was already satisfied that no one had tipped her off to the search warrant, for the anticipated visitor was standing in the open doorway and flashing his FBI credentials for all to see.

  “Hello, Johanna.” Special Agent Marvin Argus made a slow turn to acknowledge the others in her company and deigned to grace them all with his most condescending smile.

  One night’s sleep and he was back in arrogant form with all the old confidence that so annoyed her. Johanna’s politics were pacifist, and yet she wanted to smack this man each time they met. Everyone did. He was from the Chicago bureau, and all the people in this room would be strangers to him, yet there was overt hostility in every face that turned his way—and a bit of confusion as well. Argus might be their first encounter with a male-heterosexual princess.

  “So which one of you is Flynn?” He grinned at the angriest man in the room, the detective who sat with Johanna. “You? Well, this is my case now. Check with your lieutenant if you like. I won’t be offended. But this interview is definitely over. And all the evidence your guys collected? That’s mine.”

  No one paid any attention to Johanna as she rose from her chair and walked toward the pet carrier. This was where she had hidden the packet of dangerous letters in a sleight of hand while locking the cat inside. With no sane regard for the possible discovery of this evidence, she opened the carrier’s door, and Mugs flew out. No, he shot out of that small opening, all but flying across the room, as if she had deliberately aimed him at Special Agent Marvin Argus.

  Only a few more minutes passed before she had her life back again, her possessions and her peace. She closed the door on the departing invaders, then turned to the cat, who delicately sniffed the abandoned bags of papers and clothing. Mugs had won the hearts of all the police. And the bleeding FBI agent had not been offered any first aid for his wounds.

  Oddly enough, it had been a profitable afternoon—reassuring and informative. The New York detective might have been a formidable opponent, but now Flynn was officially off the case. And the Chicago police had been miserly in sharing information with him. He had tied her to only two murders, a very modest body count.

  5

  RIKER WAS ONE UNHAPPY MAN AS HE ENTERED the Greenwich Village restaurant. He was responding to a summons from a revered icon of NYPD, a retired captain who continued to police his children, keeping track of all their transgressions. Brother Ned was the good son, who so seldom required this personal attention. All the blackest marks belonged to Riker.

  Dad still harbored grudges from a teenage-runaway episode also known as the Mexican Rebellion. After a summer-long flight from the old man’s tyranny, Riker had returned home to Brooklyn. Covered in road dirt and ragged, he had sported long hair and a boy’s first beard, a defiant combination that had guaranteed him some fireworks. But the old man had met him at the door in cold silence and never said a word to him all that day. Years later, Riker had chanced upon an open drawer in his father’s desk. It was usually locked, for this was where the old man had kept his only valuables, the badge and the gun. And there Riker had also found a third object, the single postcard mailed home from Mexico, the only shred of proof that his father had missed him, worried over him and possibly loved him.

  The retired captain was seated in a corner booth. The bartender hovered over the table and personally poured out the single-malt whiskey, not trusting this special customer to a waitress. Into his late seventies, Dad had retained his ramrod posture and all his hair, thick and white. The old man did look sharp in his dark suit and tie so like the silk threads he had worn as a police detective. Drawing closer, Riker saw his father’s lips move, probably rehearsing a lecture that would amount to only a few spoken words; the central point would be driven home by the famous glare of disappointment.

  Riker knew he would not be forgiven for the clumsy error of getting shot, nor for the greater mistake of not fighting a medical discharge. And there was one more possibility for this meeting. Had Dad discovered that one of his sons had been busy committing criminal acts today? The old man’s information network was uncanny. Already planning lies of protection to cover Mallory’s part in foiling a search warrant, Riker rounded a pillar, and now he could see that the old man was not alone. His drinking companion was also dressed in a suit, and one of the stranger’s pant legs was torn.

  Mugs? Oh, yeah.

  Riker owned a pair of jeans with those same distinctive claw marks. A bandaged hand was more evidence that this man, probably a detective, had paid a recent visit to the Chelsea Hotel. Damn Johanna. He had warned her to play nicely with the police. The man’s face was shielded by a potted fern, but Riker could assume he was a cop from Flynn’s Greenwich Village precinct.

  “Sir?” This was all Riker said by way of a greeting to his father, a man with no use for long sentences. A grunt of acknowledgment would have been more to Dad’s liking.

  He was introduced to his father’s guest by name, rank and no wasted words, “Special Agent Marvin Argus, FBI.” This was the same man who had come looking for Jo yesterday afternoon. At the time, Riker had not taken Argus for a federal agent. He had never met a fed with a girly fringe of bangs plastered to his forehead.

  The FBI man shifted his seat in the booth, making room for Riker to sit beside him. “So you’re the hero cop. I heard you left the force.”

  “That’s not final,” said Riker’s father, hoping to put an end to this interminable babble. Dad leaned forward, glaring at the agent with a silent suggestion to just get on with it. The old man’s tense body language put his son on notice that he was here under duress, that everything about this meeting stank. And just as clear was Dad’s dislike for this agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Riker wondered how many old favors had been called in to get his own father to act as a lure for this meeting.

  “I’d like to talk about your employee, Johanna Apollo,” said Agent Argus. “Oh, sorry—you know her as Josephine Richards. Hey, I never got your first name.”

  Ignoring this question and declining the space the agent had made for him, Riker elected to sit with his father on the other side of the table. And now that the lines were clearly drawn, he could see the agent backing up in his mind and rethinking his tactics.

  Dad almost smiled. Almost.

  Argus’s grin was forced. “You probably think I’m here about that homicide at the playground. Well, you’d be wrong.” He toyed with his cuff links while waiting in vain for some show of interest. Riker’s father rapped one knuckle on the table, and the agent all but snapped to attention, saying, “I’m investigating the murder of an FBI agent, Timothy Kidd. Johanna’s also connected to that one. But you already knew that.”

  You’re guessing.

  Riker shook his head in denial. “I don’t know squat. The lady’s a very private person.” In a lighter tone, he said, “So, she killed a fed, huh?” He turned to his father to see if this also warranted a near smile.

  Sit up straight, said Dad’s cold gray eyes, and not one more smart-ass remark.

  And Riker did sit up a bit straighter, force of habit from correction sessions at the dinner table every damn night of his childhood. Over the years, he had learned to decipher the words behind the old man’s every glance in his direction. With a more sober attitude, he turned back to the FBI man, asking, “What do you want?”

  “A little of your time.” Argus leaned back against the booth’s red leather cushion. “Let me tell you about this dead agent, a real sweet guy. And just between us?” He paused to flash a quick smile, still trying to curry intimacy. “Timmy was always a little spooky. Toward the end, he definitely had a few screws loose. But I think you would’ve liked him. One damn fine investigator—as good as it gets.”

  A
nd now Riker learned that the deceased Timothy Kidd had possessed a heightened ability to ferret out nuances of guilt, to translate volumes of words from nothing said, finding patterns in chaos and in other people’s unspoken thoughts. In the weeks before his death, the exquisite brain of this acute paranoid was electrified and wired up to everything that moved and everything that did not.

  “Ah, Timmy,” said Agent Argus. “Crazy bastard. He could read warning signs written on thin air. And he was one smart son of a bitch, smart enough to mask his symptoms for a long time. He got past the Bureau’s psych test with no sweat. But down the road a bit, his reports started leaning toward fantasyland. The chief of his field office didn’t report it—didn’t want to lose a good man to the shrinks. Well, we fired his chief for incompetence, and then we tried to help Timmy with his—problem. If we’d only gotten to him sooner, he’d probably be alive today.”

  Riker understood that this confession of Bureau screwups was supposed to bring them closer together, cop to cop, but he was very fussy about his male bonding, and Marvin Argus did not make the cut.

  Dad seemed at the verge of spitting on the FBI man, finding Argus’s diatribe distasteful. Cops did not behave this way. Their messes were kept in the family.

  “Well,” said the agent, “we found Tim a psychiatrist with an IQ higher than his. That was so he couldn’t put anything past her. Dr. Johanna Apollo was the highest-paid shrink in Chicago, and now she’s a crime-scene janitor.” The man staged a smug pause. “Yeah, I thought you’d find that interesting. She called Tim a gifted paranoid. Of course, that was after he was murdered. We think she’s withholding information.”