Crime School

by Carol O'Connell

  Sparrow’s case was lost.

  “Try explaining this away.” Coffey reached into a stack of paperwork and pulled out a photograph of the more recent hanging. “The nooses aren’t the same, not even close. Sparrow’s has a simple knot.” He held up the rope used on Natalie Homer. “This one is guaranteed to kill. If your perp knew how to tie a hangman’s noose, why didn’t he use it on the hooker?”

  Mallory kept her silence. She only stared at the noose, the last piece of evidence Coffey had been withholding, waiting for her to show him everything she had. It looked like a clear victory for the boss, yet Riker sensed that the man’s graceful-winner smile was premature, that Mallory was not quite played out.

  Jack Coffey continued. “You know why this case bothered your old man? Markowitz didn’t know the hanging was just for show. The autopsy report was sealed. He never knew the woman was strangled before she was hung.”

  “He knew!”

  “Prove it!”

  Mallory pulled a battered notebook from her back pocket and handed it to the lieutenant. “You’re wrong about the hanging.”

  Even without the reading glasses that Riker never wore, he recognized Lou Markowitz’s handwriting as Jack Coffey flipped through illegible pages of shorthand punctuated by single words.

  Coffey looked up at Mallory. “I can’t even read most of the—”

  “I can,” she said. “The tape on Natalie’s wrists was so tight it dug into her skin. But no sign of cut-off circulation. And you won’t find that in the autopsy report—another screwup. Markowitz could read a corpse better than that drunk Norris. He knew the perp bound a dead woman’s hands. He knew she was dead before she was hanged, and that rope still bothered him.”

  Lieutenant Coffey closed the notebook. “You just made my case. It was a garden-variety murder dressed up like a psycho hanging.”

  “No! The killer always planned to hang Natalie Homer, but something went wrong.”

  “That’s reaching, Mallory.”

  “If the perp didn’t plan on a hanging, why would he bring a rope?” She snatched the old notebook from the lieutenant’s hand, then stalked out of the office. An outsider would have read her exit as cold anger. Coffey did. In reality, Mallory simply had a flawless sense of timing.

  And the time was now.

  “Makes sense,” said Riker.

  “The hell it does. Natalie Homer’s dead body was in that apartment from Friday till Sunday night. Lots of time for the perp to come back with his rope. She’s forcing these cases to link.”

  “Everything she said panned out.” And Riker would have regarded this as a miracle, but what were the odds that God was on Mallory’s side? “And you gotta wonder what else she found in Lou’s notes.” He silently complimented his partner on her early departure with the notebook. “Give us a week. How’s it gonna look if another body turns up after you bounce Sparrow’s case back to Loman’s squad?”

  “That’s crap, Riker. There’s no connection here, and you know it. All you’ve got is two women with bad haircuts and lots of rope.” Coffey covered his face with one hand, for it would never do to let the troops see his frustration. “So here’s the deal. You keep Geldorf and his file out of my shop. And he never gets a look at Sparrow’s evidence.”

  “Deal.” The detective tapped out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe, then rose from the chair. He was uncomfortable with this win. It was going too smoothly.

  The lieutenant gathered loose papers and photographs into the red folder. “And keep Geldorf away from the reporters. I don’t wanna read any headlines about a trumped-up case connection.” He tossed the ME’s file to Riker, then dropped the rope into the cardboard box at his feet. “And get this crap out of my office.”

  Riker leaned down and picked up the evidence carton. “I’ve got a place to stash everything—the old man too.” The boss would not want to hear the name Butler and Company, no hint that Mallory’s ties to that firm were still binding.

  “Good,” said Coffey. “If you can’t make a case in forty-eight hours, you lose the hooker to Loman.” He lowered his head, pretending interest in the papers on his desk blotter. “I called the hospital. It doesn’t look good for the hooker. She’s going sour.” He looked up. “Sorry about that. You and Sparrow go back a long ways, don’t you?”

  Riker nodded. He understood everything now. His partner had entrusted him with the endgame, the humiliating part, for Jack Coffey had just made it very clear that this was only charity for an aging detective and a dying whore.

  Lars Geldorf opened the door, and Mallory followed him into an apartment that stank of stale ashtrays and yesterday’s meals. The frayed furnishings and a small-screen television set were character references for an honest cop living within the means of his pension. A large mirror over the mantelpiece reflected light from windows overlooking Hell’s Kitchen along Eighth Avenue. There were no signs that a woman had ever lived here. The dust was thick, the window glass was yellowed with the nicotine of a million cigarettes, and the walls were all about Geldorf.

  Framed newspaper clippings were grouped with photographs of his younger self posed with politicians and cops who had died before Mallory was born. One citation hung by itself in the most impressive frame. It was hardly evidence of a stellar career, but he obviously took great pride in it.

  The retired detective paused to rock on his heels and smile, to allow time for his guest to admire these mementos. Then he led her into the next room, where another large mirror had pride of place. It almost covered a line of cracked plaster, but its real purpose was less functional. The old man stood before the looking glass, a peacock in a silk suit that was decades out of style. His gold pinky ring gleamed as he straightened his tie and smiled, loving what he saw. And now he pointed to another cluster of photographs. “That one in the middle was taken the night we cut Natalie down. I shot it myself.”

  Mallory stared at the framed crime-scene photo. The hair had been removed from the victim’s mouth. The prone corpse lay on the floor, displayed in an open body bag, and two grinning detectives stood over the dead woman, posed as hunters with a trophy kill. But the real trophy was the third man, only a visitor on this scene, a celebrated cop who stood between the case detectives and a head above them. The two grinning men appeared to be restraining Louis Markowitz, an unwilling subject for a macabre souvenir. His face was slightly blurred by the sad shake of his head.

  Below this photograph was a desk buried under papers and flanked by file cabinets. The most modern piece of office equipment was an early-generation fax machine. Cartons were piled on cheap metal storage shelves, and two large bulletin boards were littered with personal notes. The absence of a computer was no surprise to Mallory. This old man still lived in the century of the typewriter.

  “I don’t see why we can’t work out of my place.” Geldorf pulled a large box from a shelf. “I’m all set up here.”

  “Coffey wants tight security,” she lied. “And a downtown location is better.”

  “Tight security.” Geldorf nodded. “Good idea.”

  The box bearing Natalie Homer’s name had been half full when he began to load in more papers. Cartons this size did not travel with Cold Case files. A thick folder should have been sufficient for reports and statements. “You’ve been working this murder for a while?”

  “Oh yeah, I never let go of a case I couldn’t close on the job,” said Geldorf. “After I retired, I just kept collecting stuff, scraps and pieces. When I was ready to do more interviews, I’d check out the Cold Case file and make it official.”

  “So you only work your own cases?”

  “That’s right. You should’ve seen this room twelve years ago. So many cartons, you couldn’t move. You had to go out in the hall to change your mind.” He waited for her to smile at his little joke—and he waited. Then, slowly, he turned around to face the shelves that were bare. “So, one by one, I’d close another Cold Case file, get rid of another box, another ghost. Now I’ve only g
ot a few left.” He lowered his head and focused on the task of packing his box. “When I was on the job, I only got days to work a murder. Now I got years.” His smile was sheepish when he said, “I shouldn’t have told you. Now you know what a lousy detective I was. But I’m gonna make it right. I’ll close ’em—every one.” He dropped more papers into his carton, then folded the cardboard flaps. “I’m all yours now—full time.”

  “And I appreciate that.” She had already laid plans to keep him out of her way. The baby-sitting detail would be split between Charles Butler and Lieutenant Loman’s whiteshield, also known as Duck Boy.

  She donned her sunglasses, then turned around for a sidelong look at the mirror and Geldorf’s reflection. She had been wrong about the peacock trait. All the posturing arrogance fell away when he believed that he was unobserved. It must have been a great strain to keep up that facade. The old man in the looking-glass room shrank and sagged, and his eyes were full of worry. He must see every young cop as a potential threat to his dignity.

  Good.

  Keeping him in line would be no problem.

  Geldorf sealed the box flaps with tape. “So now you’ll wanna talk to everybody who saw my crime scene.” He glanced in her direction. “You’re wondering how your perp found out about the hair in Natalie’s mouth.”

  Mallory turned around to smile at him. Crafty old man. “You knew it wasn’t a serial killing.”

  “Couldn’t be.” His sly grin explained everything: He had simply wanted to come back to the job—to come in from the cold of his old age. “My prime suspect died nineteen years ago.”

  She almost liked him. With only an exchange of nods and knowing glances, mutual admissions of lies were made and vows of silence taken. They were allies now, and neither of them would give the other away.

  “At best, what you got is a copycat.” He lifted the heavy box in his arms, and she showed him respect by not offering to help with the load. Geldorf walked behind her, saying, “When I find out where your perp got his information, maybe I can close out Natalie’s case. Oh, yeah, I think we can help each other.”

  You can dream, old man.

  She had no intention of working Natalie Homer’s homicide. The trail was twenty years old and a cold one. She opened the door for Geldorf, then took his proffered keys and locked it.

  “The link is in the details.” He struggled with the bulky carton as they walked toward the elevator. “I had complete control over my crime scene. No leaks to the media. You know how I pulled that off? I told a uniform to take bribes from the reporters. Well, this kid gets twenty bucks apiece from those bastards, then tells ’em he found the woman swingin’ from a rope.”

  “So they figured it was a suicide.” Mallory approved. It was always wise to tell the truth when you lied. “And Natalie Homer got lost on page ten.”

  “And just one newspaper, a couple of lousy paragraphs.” He set down the box and pushed a button to call for the elevator. “So now you’ll wanna rule out the possible leaks. Lucky I saved my old case notes.”

  Yeah, right.

  “You can handle those interviews,” said Mallory. “I got you an assistant to go along as your badge.” Then she would be rid of Geldorf and Duck Boy.

  “What about the big guy? Butler? Was that his name?”

  Geldorf pulled out a card given to him an hour ago at the offices of Butler and Company.

  “Doctor Butler,” said Mallory, though Charles had never used that title. “He’s a consulting psychologist with NYPD.” Fortunately, there was no useful information on the business card to contradict that lie. “He’ll be working closely with you.”

  Charles Butler wore a suit and tie, for this was a workday. Many thanks to Riker’s intervention, the tedium of a summer hiatus was finally at an end. He passed through the reception area of Queen Anne furniture and Watteau watercolors, then strolled down a short hall, leaving behind centuries of antique decor that separated the other rooms from Mallory’s domain of electronics, of plastic and metal and wire. Her private office at the rear of Butler and Company had some charming features. However, the tall arched windows were hidden behind cold steel blinds, and a plain gray rug strove to disguise the hardwood floor as concrete.

  Her three computers sat atop workstations perfectly aligned at the center of the room, and all the monitors were lit. Square blue cyclops eyes focused upon the intruder, and Charles recalled his old dream of kicking in the glass and blinding the little bastards.

  The free space of three walls was devoted to gray metal shelving units stocked with manuals lined up precisely one inch from the edge and software components keeping company with hardware. Mallory had refused his offer of paintings, preferring not to clutter the giant bulletin board that covered her fourth wall from baseboard to ceiling molding.

  Sergeant Riker was still at work pinning photographs and papers to the cork surface. The detective had given Charles a new project, a present, actually two gifts: a twenty-year-old murder and a seventy-five-year-old man.

  “When will they be back?”

  “Half an hour, give or take.” Riker sifted through the contents of a leather pouch and selected more papers. Handwritten notes and typed statements had been arranged on the wall in no particular order.

  “All this to pacify Mr. Geldorf?”

  “Yeah,” said Riker. “Think it might keep you busy for a while?”

  “Absolutely, and thank you.” Charles was wondering how to broach another subject without seeming ungrateful. He decided that oblique angles were best. “After Louis died, did Mallory keep any of those old westerns?”

  “No!” Riker dropped the pouch on the floor, then bent down to retrieve it.

  “What a pity.” Charles faced the wall and studied a diagram of the murder victim’s apartment. “I wanted to read the books, maybe figure out what Louis saw in them. I suppose I can track down other copies, but that—”

  “No, you can’t.” Riker turned his back on Charles to pin up the full-color photograph of a gutted woman on a dissection table. “You can’t get ’em anymore. Just cheap paperbacks. Nothing you’d find on a library shelf.”

  “That’s what John Warwick said—almost the same words.”

  Riker spread one hand flat on the cork and slowly leaned into the wall. He bowed his head, perhaps bracing for the accusations, a litany of deceits, years of lies, his own and Louis’s.

  If that were true, he would wait forever.

  Charles sat down at the edge of Mallory’s steel desk. He waited patiently until Riker turned round to face him, and then he smiled for the man. His inadvertently foolish expression had the same relaxing effect on the detective as it had had on John Warwick. “Perhaps you could just tell me what happened in the next book?”

  “Yeah, give me a second.” Riker settled into a metal folding chair and remembered to exhale. He was obviously relieved, perhaps assuming that nothing more had transpired between John Warwick and a disappointed customer. “It’s been a while. You remember the plot of the first book?”

  Charles nodded. “A fifteen-year-old boy shot a man in the street.”

  “An unarmed man. In the next book, you find out that cowboy had a gun after all, and it was a fair fight.” Riker turned his head for one furtive glance at the office door. Assured that they were alone, he continued. “The Kid took the other guy’s six-shooter ’cause it was better than his old rusty one. But the sheriff never saw that second gun. The Kid had it stashed in his belt before Peety got to the crime scene.”

  Subsequently, Charles learned that the lawman had remained unaware of this exculpatory evidence—while the boy was growing into premature manhood as a fugitive.

  “Now they’re a year older,” said Riker, “Sheriff Peety and the Kid.” And it was miles too late for the boy to clear his name. “Wichita won another gunfight and killed another man.”

  Riker glanced at the door again, knowing that he would never hear Mallory coming up behind him. She was that quiet. He turned back to Ch
arles and his story. “The Kid’s name is no joke anymore. He’s a bona fide gunslinger, a real outlaw. At the end of the first book, the sheriff runs him right off the rim of a canyon, a three-hundred-foot drop. The Kid was still in the saddle at the time. Down he goes, horse and all.”

  “But he survived.”

  “Yeah, the horse too. When the next book opens, the Kid lands in the river, and the fall knocks him out. He gets washed ashore beside his half-dead horse. An Indian girl finds him and drags him back to her village. She’s his age, just sixteen. On the last page, the sheriff’s chasin’ Wichita again, and the girl buys the Kid some time. She throws herself under the sheriff’s galloping horse.” He splayed his hands to say, You see how it works? He tossed the leather pouch to Charles. “You and Geldorf can finish setting up the wall, okay? Play detective. Knock yourself out.”

  Charles’s smile was brief, merely polite this time. The detective had made an interesting point, but the aspect of cliffhanger suspense did not explain why anyone would bother to read the novels twice. And young Kathy Mallory had read them again and again. Why?

  The bookseller’s theory of a child needing comfort from a fictional world would not hold up. Charles glanced at the surrounding shelves of dry technical journals and reference books. Mallory never read fiction. Louis Markowitz had once told him what a fight it had been to instill a sense of make-believe in his foster daughter, and ultimately he had lost that battle. To Louis’s sorrow, she had remained a hardened realist throughout her childhood.

  And though she had displayed an early penchant for cowboy movies, he had surmised long ago that it was largely for the companionship of Louis that the little girl had indulged the man in Saturday mornings of gunfights and cavalry charges. From what Charles knew of the early warfare between foster father and daughter, young Kathy would rather have died than admit to this need for his company. For all the years that man and child had known one another and loved one another, she had kept Louis at a distance, never addressing him in any form but Hey Cop and Markowitz.