Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  The body’s path to the bedroom would’ve been the opposite way I had traveled to the couch, or via the media room, kitchen, and foyer. I walked both routes but found no blood on the tile or carpet, which suggested to me the victim was either carried in a position to keep her head from dripping or was dragged by the armpits with her head hanging forward. In the bedroom, the king-size bed was undisturbed. On the nightstand was a photo of a fairly large poodle lying on the floor with her head in Jackie Whitney’s lap. The shelves in the closet were mostly bare. A mess of clothing covered the floor. The ladder leaned against the top shelf where the body was found. Retracing my steps through the living room, I had somehow missed a photo of Jackie Whitney and another woman kneeling on either side of a large mastiff-type dog. I took a picture of the photo with my phone then headed back to the lobby.

  From the doorman’s desk, I watched Manny carry a couple of suitcases outside to deposit into the trunk of a taxi. An elderly woman clutching a small purse waited patiently in front of the open passenger door. When Manny slammed the trunk shut, the woman took some coins out of the purse and dropped them into his hand. Manny bowed deeply at the smiling, wrinkled face before backing away. Then he walked briskly through the lobby, shaking the coins in his fist as if about to throw dice at a crap table.

  “Fifty-cent tip?” I said.

  “Sweetest old lady you ever met,” Manny said. “Ninety-six years old and still travels on her own—God bless her!”

  I took out a picture of the murder weapon. “Does this belong to the maintenance people?”

  Manny studied it a moment. “It looks like one of our hammers. Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t picture Jackie Whitney owning tools.”

  “Jackie would borrow a hammer or a screwdriver from time to time.”

  “Had she borrowed one shortly before she died?”

  Manny thought about it. “I don’t know. We haven’t been keeping track of these things. But maybe we should.”

  “The old guy outside, dressed up like a Queen’s Chelsea Pensioner. I didn’t see him before. Does he work inside too?”

  Manny chuckled. “Marv’s normal gig is the lobby’s graveyard shift. A few times a week he’ll come in wearing that costume just to open doors. Then he’ll go home and come back at eleven.”

  “What’s he doing here now if he works graveyard hours?”

  “Just an eccentric old guy having a little harmless fun. He’s eighty-two and has been employed here since 1954. Did you notice the medals? Silver Star and Purple Heart. A battle called Outpost Harry. Korean War. I thought maybe he was starting to lose it upstairs, but he’s still sharp as a tack.”

  “You don’t worry something unmanageable might happen while he’s on duty?”

  “There’s not much to do overnight and the lobby is attended twenty-four hours, so help is nearby. A good thing too. Not long ago the front desk attendant found Marv unconscious. He was taken to the hospital, where he spent a few weeks battling pneumonia. Nobody thought he’d recover, but he showed everybody how tough he is. Gloria organized a little party for him when he returned.”

  I smiled at the compassionate gesture. “Speaking of Gloria, I’m curious about her dog, Louie. What kind of dog is it?”

  Manny looked puzzled. “Uh, I’m really not sure. One of those little curly white dogs you see everywhere.”

  “Like a small version of Jackie’s poodle?”

  “Yeah, but not a poodle. Maybe a mix. Sturdy little guy. Lots of spirit.”

  “Some kind of terrier?”

  “Could be. Why do you ask?”

  “I was just wondering what kind of dog someone Gloria’s age would own. Have a great day, my friend.” I bowed deeply while backing away.

  —

  Freddie slouched forward over the concierge desk, blue blazer hanging loosely over narrow shoulders. He looked a bit odd sporting a toothy grin while sitting alone behind a deserted desk. The name tag on his lapel said Frederick.

  “May I help you, sir?” Freddie said. His voice registered deeper than I expected for a small-framed man.

  “Hi, Frederick, Manny thought it would be okay if I asked you a few questions regarding Jackie Whitney. I’m a private investigator.”

  The grin vanished. I took out my PI license and laid it on the desk. Freddie glanced down at it. “I really don’t like to talk about it,” Freddie said. His skin was a bit oily. Facial hair sparse. Something about his eyes seemed unnatural.

  “I’m sorry. You were friends with Jackie?” Freddie nodded, his lower lip quivered. Both men who worked in the lobby had become emotional when talking about Jackie Whitney. I said, “I’m going to find out who did this horrible thing. You would be doing a great service to your friend if you talk to me a little bit.”

  “What do you mean, find out? That awful woman did it.”

  “Maybe. I just want to make sure it was her and find out if others were involved. When was the last time you spoke to Jackie?”

  “A few days before she returned from Palm Springs.”

  “Really? So you two were good friends?”

  “Yes. She called me at least once a week while she was gone.” Freddie pulled a few tissues from a box on the counter, blew a loud honk. “She accepted me,” Freddie said. “Jackie didn’t judge me.”

  The comment’s ambiguity was intentional. I thought I understood. “She didn’t judge lifestyle choices you made. Is that what you mean?”

  Freddie nodded and blew his nose again at the same time. “Jackie knew me before I started transitioning. When my name was Felicia.”

  My turn to nod, as if the Freddie/Felicia thing had been absurdly obvious. “How long did Jackie know you as Felicia before you started transitioning?”

  “Around two years. She talked me through my fear. She helped me find resources, convinced me to come out, find the right doctors. My God, she paid for it! That’s the kind of woman she was!”

  “Did you know the woman they arrested? Kate McCall?”

  “Of course not. Why would I know her?”

  “Well, she was like Jackie’s personal assistant.”

  “Jackie and I spoke only when it was just the two of us. That Kate woman was never around.”

  “Did Jackie ever talk about her personal life? Any conflicts she had with people?”

  “She focused only on me. She was a giver. Give, give, give. That’s all she ever did.”

  “Kate McCall had a key to Jackie’s place. Did you also have a key?”

  Freddie held both hands to his mouth and looked away. Through his fingers he said, “She had a key. Oh, my God!”

  “Freddie, did you also have a key? Or access to a key?”

  He turned to me, still covering his mouth. “No! I mean, if she got locked out or something, we were allowed to get a key. But for no other reason.”

  “Where would you go to talk?”

  His hands came down. He swallowed hard. “Well, sometimes we’d get coffee somewhere. Several times she traveled all the way to my apartment in Pilsen to see me. That’s the kind of person she was. But often we just chatted right here, assuming there was nobody requiring my attention.”

  “Did you ever chat in her apartment?”

  Freddie closed his eyes a moment, then looked around. “Oh, no. That would’ve been against the rules. Of the building, I mean.”

  “She could’ve invited you up, right?”

  Freddie looked at his watch. “I suppose, but that’s frowned upon.”

  “Do you work weekends?”

  “No.”

  “Then you weren’t here on May sixteenth or seventeenth, when Jackie—when it most likely happened?”

  “No. I’m not sure anyone was working at the concierge desk.”

  “I thought it was manned twenty-four hours.”

  “When we’re fully staffed, which is rare. It’s difficult to find someone to work the overnight shift and stay longer than a month.”

  “Who can tell me if some
one worked that weekend?”

  Freddie gave me his supervisor’s card. I thanked him for his time and left a card of my own.

  Chapter 7

  From the sidewalk in front of Kenilworth Manor, I called Rush University Medical Center.

  “Orthopedic surgery. How may I direct your call?”

  I asked for Dr. Kessler. Another phone rang then a recording offered me options. I chose to hang up and drive to the hospital. At the orthopedic building I showed my state investigator credentials to the front desk. The woman appeared unimpressed but wrote down my name and offered me her crowded waiting room.

  I stood around for five minutes then started roaming past rooms of iced and elevated limbs. All I had to go on was Kate McCall’s goddamn peckerwood observation. Several rooms had doctors beside patients or nurses conducting post-surgical mobility exercises. Then I came upon the backside of a man in Armani jeans and a powder blue sport shirt, leaning against the wall just outside a room. I walked past him. He was smiling broadly with a cellphone to his ear. Maybe if he hadn’t been wearing a Vandyke beard, my hunch would not have been as strong. Inside the room, four young doctors—residents, I assumed—stood idly around a patient. I slowed down, hovered near the now giggling man, then entered the room.

  “Is that Dr. Kessler?” I said, pointing toward the doorway. All four stoically nodded. The patient watched television using earphones.

  Back in the hallway, I slid my state investigator’s ID into his line of vision. Without looking at me, he took the ID from my hand and continued his conversation. I stepped back to regroup. When he put my ID into his pocket, I tapped him on the shoulder. “Hang on,” he said then looked at me.

  “Can I have my ID back?”

  His eyes plotted coordinates on my face. “Who are you?”

  “You just put my ID into your pocket.”

  Kessler straightened up. “Let me call you back,” he said into the phone. “Now, what are you talking about?”

  “Put your hand into your left pocket and you’ll find my state investigator’s ID.”

  He did as told then read it. “You’re with the, uh, district attorney guys.”

  “No, I’m with the public defender.”

  Kessler smiled and nodded. “Oh, the other side. You’re defending that cunt.”

  “Can we talk privately?”

  Kessler looked at his watch then stuck his head into the room. “Hey, guys, I’ll be back in ten minutes. Take a break or something.”

  I followed Kessler down the hall to his office. He plopped himself down behind a mahogany desk, put his feet up, then told me to pull a chair over from a table. A half-empty fifth of twenty-five-year-old Glenglassaugh sat on his desk.

  “So what do you want to know that I haven’t already told the cops?”

  “How did you find out about Jackie Whitney’s rental?”

  “Through one of those agencies for people with a lot of money.”

  “You couldn’t find a mortgage for less than that kind of rent?”

  “I’m on loan from Stanford, through a private grant.”

  “Your agreement with Jackie Whitney was to pay in cash and take care of the dog?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why did you move out?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I’m just trying to get the facts straight. You wrote a note saying the water didn’t get hot and there were roaches?”

  Kessler sighed loudly then lifted his feet off the desk. “I said bedbugs. An infestation and I had little bites all over me. All bullshit, but that’s what I wrote. Though it’s true the water never got hot-hot.”

  “What about unpaid rent?”

  “I told Jackie that Kate was keeping the money. I paid every month, including the month I left. Kate’s a liar and a thief.”

  “What did you do with the dog, Trixie?”

  “I left her with the lady who lived below Whitney’s place.”

  “What was the apartment number?”

  “I’m not sure. There are only three apartments on that floor.”

  “When did you and Jackie Whitney last speak?”

  Kessler rubbed his forehead. “She called me in early May to see why I had supposedly stopped paying.”

  “And you told Kate about this phone call?”

  “I left messages. She never returned my calls. But I’d decided to move out, so I didn’t care anymore.”

  “Why did you bother writing the note?”

  “Just to fuck with Kate. I was hoping she’d freak out over the bedbugs.”

  “Did you move out in one day? I mean, did you come back for anything later?”

  Kessler scratched his head. “No. I just packed my things and left.”

  “On what day?”

  He laced his fingers over the top of his head and looked at the ceiling. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Whatever day I told the cops. I don’t know. The fourteenth? Fifteenth?”

  “Whitney’s closet. Was it open?”

  “How the hell would I know? I stayed in the guest room.”

  The doctor glanced at his watch then leaned forward in his chair. I said, “Okay, I guess that’s it. You won’t mind if I contact you again—if I have any other questions.”

  “Of course not. Hang on.” Kessler opened a drawer, rummaged around until he found a card, and handed it to me. I returned the gesture with a card of my own.

  —

  From the sidewalk in front of the hospital I dialed the next name on my list.

  “Verkakte Fashions,” a male voice answered, and I laughed at the somewhat off-color Yiddish word. The voice said, “Hello?”

  “Can I speak to George Mason?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Jules Landau. I’m an investigator with the public defender’s office.”

  Silence, then, “I already spoke to the police.”

  “I’m working for the defense.”

  “Why don’t you just ask the police what I had to say?”

  “Because it doesn’t work that way. Both sides get to talk to character witnesses.”

  George blew his nose. “How can you defend those people?”

  “You’re supposed to say that to the public defender, not the private investigator.”

  “Well, who do you work for?”

  George would require gentle handling. “I work for myself.” Technically, I wasn’t lying. “I’m in the business of truth, George. I give you my word, I just want to find out what kind of person Ms. Whitney was.”

  “She was my best friend,” George said, his voice cracking.

  “Then just tell me about your best friend. Honestly, George, that’s all I’m asking.”

  Sometimes it’s the phrasing that gets you in the door. George agreed to meet me in an hour.

  —

  The store was located on North Halsted, close to The Chicago Diner. I parked near my apartment then walked six blocks to the restaurant, arriving light-headed with the kind of hunger that reduced people to behaving like their primitive ancestors. While I ravaged the diner’s trademarked vegetarian Radical Reuben, I thought about the guy lost in the Australian outback, mad with hunger, who happened upon a baby kangaroo, tore it apart, then devoured Joey raw. The man later reported how satisfying the animal tasted.

  I looked over George’s police statement. It revealed his dislike of the defendant, and when he last spoke to Jackie Whitney. Then I entered Verkakte Fashions, a boutique specializing in women’s mod clothing. Everything was boldly colored, sharp, hip, and streamlined. Vespa scooters were strategically parked around the shop. Neon signs advertised nightclubs. I asked a young woman hanging black A-line skirts if George was around. She pointed to a man sitting behind the counter paging through a magazine. He had short, spiky golden blond hair with black roots.

  “Hello, George,” I said. “We spoke on the phone.”

  George closed the magazine and motioned for me to follow him to an office at the back of the store. He sat a
t his desk in a steno chair, I took a seat on a small couch.

  “Okay,” he said. “Ask me your questions.”

  “How long were you and Jackie close friends?”

  “Since high school.”

  “Wow. So tell me about your best friend.”

  George breathed in deeply then let it out. “Even in high school she was her own person. I give credit to her wonderful parents. Pretty, lots of money, brains, and as many friends as a teen girl wanted. But she wasn’t a princess-bitch like so many others. She befriended me. Accepted me when my own parents wouldn’t.” George grabbed some tissues from a box on his desk then dabbed his eyes. “Junior year, I moved into her parents’ apartment. Besides being a homophobe, my father drank. I showed up at her door with a black eye and fat lip.”

  “How long did you stay with her family?”

  “Until I went to college.”

  “Did she have other close friends?”

  George paused. “Well, there was Linda Napier. At one time they were like sisters. You could say the three of us were like sisters.” George giggled. “We partied together, well into adulthood. Just alcohol and pot. Then one winter Linda slipped on the ice, broke her leg in three places, shattered her ankle. Horrible. She mostly recovered but got addicted to Oxy in the process. She discovered that heroin was cheaper and more easily obtainable, and we watched her drift into hell.”

  “But she got help?”

  “Yes, she got somewhat clean a couple of years ago, or at least enough to get back in touch with us. She says the only drugs she takes now are the ones her psychiatrist prescribes. I don’t believe her. It’s obvious she still drinks.”

  “Did she ever introduce Jackie to anyone from this dark period of her life?”

  “Jackie never said anything to me about it.”

  “What was Jackie and Linda’s relationship like after Linda returned?”

  “Well, we both saw that she was trying to put her life back together—bless her heart. And that’s what Jackie focused on. We couldn’t save her from herself, but as long as Linda was trying, Jackie would be there for her.”

  “Financially?”

  George paused. He seemed conflicted. “Yes. Jackie owns the townhouse where Linda lives, Jackie owns the Lexus Linda drives, and Linda’s brother sends her money every month. She’s very humiliated being so dependent on others. I promised I wouldn’t tell anybody, so if you talk to her, please don’t mention any of this.”