The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  “Hah! You’ll solve it? I’ll let you in on a little secret, friend. Looks to me like the police already have.”

  “You mean Jerry’s confessed?”

  “Hell no, he says he’s innocent. But get this, Davey. You know those cards saying REPENT? The ones in the dead women’s mouths? They’re his cards. He brought them here with him from Oklahoma. No doubt about it. Two of his prints are on one of them.”

  I went silent. When I spoke again it was in an entirely different tone. “What?”

  “You heard me. Those REPENT cards are his.”

  “His cards? Are you kidding me?” This was going to be a real kick in the head for Regan. “Has he admitted they’re his?”

  “Sure. Not that it matters much. They got a search warrant on Wednesday and went to his apartment. Found hundreds of them. He says he brought them from Oklahoma to hand out to people on street corners.

  “And he handed them out, all right — in Times Square. People saw him doing it. In fact, that’s how the police found him — they got descriptions from people who saw him there that evening. Trouble is, he was handing them out on the fatal Friday the thirteenth. The night of the first murder.” Baker chuckled unpleasantly.

  “Think about that one, Davey. Fanning’s seen handing the cards out in Times Square, roughly two hours before Langelaar gets iced. And guess where Langelaar was last seen alive?”

  I nodded to myself, sure of what was coming.

  “Yeah, you guessed it. The last whore who saw Little Teri alive says she saw her on Times Square — just a block away from where Fanning was handing out cards. And at about the same time. Doesn’t look good for your buddy.” Baker’s voice now took on a new, insinuating tone. “I got all this, by the way, from, uh, Fran Wilson. Looks like Harrington’s handing her the case. Lucky gal.”

  I understood the change in his voice. As he well knew, Fran and I had something going, once upon a time. She’d joined the D.A.’s office right out of law school during my last year on the force, and we hit it off right away. Good-looker with a great bod. I threw a pass, she intercepted, and the two of us scored some very pleasant touchdowns. Then Sally came along and — well, life changes.

  But I never stopped liking Fran. I’d kept track of her over the years and been happy to see her — deservedly — move up the ranks. She was now an assistant D.A., one of Harrington’s top three.

  Of course, Baker’s “lucky gal” comment had been sarcasm. For someone in Harrington’s office, getting assigned a high-profile case like Strangler John was a no-win deal. Do everything right, develop an airtight case, and Harrington comes in and takes all the glory. Screw up and you die alone. Fran had drawn the short straw.

  “Fran, hmm? What else has she got? I suppose they found all four sets of earrings in Brother Fanning’s apartment?”

  “Nope, no earrings anywhere. That’ll probably come later, not that Fran necessarily needs them. She may already have enough.”

  “Such as?”

  “Plenty, my friend. For openers, like I said, the REPENT cards with Fanning’s prints on them. For another, before I got to him, they gave him a polygraph. He flunked. Inadmissible technically, but don’t worry, Fran’ll figure a way to get it before the jury. I’ll scream about it, but with my luck, we’ll get Perkins or someone like him, and he’ll shoot me down. And juries go for that kind of crap.

  “And then there’s the little matter of Fanning’s bizarre behavior on Wednesday when he was first approached by the police. Fran’s really going to go to town with that. For witnesses, she’s got two credible cops and two even more credible bystanders. Well, so she says. And I believe her.”

  I hated to ask but I had to. “So what did he do, Dave?”

  “Well, it wasn’t real bright — whether he’s Strangler John or not. See, keep in mind, they weren’t even thinking of him as the murderer; they just wanted to verify that the cards were his. And find out if he knew anyone who might have taken some. So the patrolman moseys up. And what does Fanning do? Cuts and runs!” He barked another unamused laugh, then continued.

  “He’s got to be the unluckiest guy in captivity. Because this patrolman — Bryant’s his name — just happens to be a former high school track star who’s still in tiptop shape. Guess how far Fanning got? He’s got Fanning on the ground in two seconds, along with a probable promotion to detective. All he’s done is find the number-one item on Kessler’s Christmas wish list: a probable Strangler John.”

  I started to ask a question, but Baker wasn’t through. “I got to tell you, Davey. Kessler’s convinced that Fanning’s it. And how can you blame him? Look at it. Here’s a guy, comes to New York October eleventh, two days before the first murder. Since then there’s been a woman strangled every Friday night — until guess when? Last night. Last night we didn’t get one. And guess where Fanning was last night?”

  “Yeah, yeah, in jail. But that’s all circumstantial, man. Have they got anything hard?”

  “Oh, rest assured, I’m pushing that angle with Fran. The answer is no, they don’t. But give them time. They only picked the guy up on Wednesday. They’re comparing his prints to every print they’ve been able to take anywhere in the vicinity of all four murders.

  “Also they’ve got mug shots of Fanning in police stations all over town, they’re showing them all over Times Square, the two hotels, Ninth Avenue in the Forties — anywhere the murderer is known to have been those four nights. If he did it, and he probably did, they’ll find the evidence. Count on it.”

  “Probably did? Hey, whose side you on, anyway?”

  Baker’s tone was bored. “I’ve told you a dozen times, Davey, I’m paid to defend ’em, not believe in ’em. You better start facing facts, buddy. Take it from me, the guy’s got a very guilty look about him.”

  I gave it some thought. I did respect Dave’s instincts. That was part of the secret of his success. But, Jerry Fanning? The Bible-pounder?

  I frowned. My earlier breeziness with Ernie and the boss was evaporating in the face of the probability that this nice fundamentalist was it. “Gee, I don’t know, Dave.”

  “Hey, the guy’s a fruitcake, Davey. He tell you about his visions?”

  “Oh, he told you about that, too? Okay, yeah, that’s on the weird side, I’ll give you that. Still, there’s something about him — I just don’t think he’s guilty.”

  “Well, I’m glad you feel that way, son, because he could use an investigator and he damn sure can’t afford it. You want to help? Just for sweet charity’s sake?”

  I thought a moment, wondering whether to bring up the Bishop’s interest in the case. I decided to wait.

  “Okay, sure, Dave,” I answered. “When do you want to get together?”

  “How about this afternoon? I’ve got an appointment to see the boy at the jail after lunch. Want to tag along?”

  7

  By the time I slid back into my chair in Regan’s office, I’d come to three conclusions. Number one, Fanning was in a whole lot of trouble. Number two, he wasn’t guilty. (Maybe. And that one was strictly from my gut.) And three, I was glad Regan was on his side.

  For once, the boss didn’t try to ignore me. Generally, when I come into his office, he’s either hard at work on a personnel file or trying to pretend he is. (He’s personnel director for the archdiocese, a job the Cardinal gave him after the injury six years ago.) But this time, as soon as I entered he shoved away the pile of papers he was working on, tossed his reading glasses on top, and gave me his undivided attention.

  “Hate to disturb a man at his work,” I said, “but I just had a very enlightening conversation with Mr. Davis Baker about our friend with the visions. Would you believe Baker’s been assigned to represent him?”

  Regan’s eyebrows went up. “Oh?”

  “Yep. Good news for Fanning. But when you hear what Baker told me, you just might want to change your opinion about the boy’s innocence.”

  “Indeed.” The Bishop frowned down at his desk, rubbin
g his hand over his chin. “I suppose you’d better tell me, then. What does Mr. Baker think?”

  “Thinks he’s guilty as sin. Let me tell you what he told me. Then tell me what you think.”

  I talked and he listened. When I came to the part about the cards in the women’s mouths being Fanning’s, that got him just like it got me. His eyes got big and he cut in.

  “Those cards were his?”

  “You got it. What the police want to know is why he didn’t come forward, if he was innocent, when they put that thing in the papers, asking anyone who had any knowledge of such cards to come forward. I’m telling you, Bishop, when you put it all together, it looks pretty bad.”

  Regan looked shaken. He nodded slowly, staring into space. He squinted at his hands for a minute. Suddenly he swung his wheelchair away from his desk and pumped over to the south wall. He sat there looking out the window, nodded jerkily and muttered something. I don’t think he intended me to hear what he said, but I did. Just.

  “I have to know. I owe the man. I have to know.”

  He swung back to me and raised his voice. “So. You are going with Mr. Baker to the jail. I’d like you to form a firmer opinion as to his guilt or innocence while you’re there. Perhaps you’ll be able to give me some guidance as to where my duty lies.”

  I nodded and got up to go. He stopped me with an upraised hand. “One other thing. While you are with Mr. Fanning, I should prepare myself, in case we decide to help. A certain detail about those murders has aroused my curiosity, and I’d like to explore it a little. You keep the newspapers for several weeks, don’t you?”

  “Sure. The last six weeks’ worth are up in my room.”

  “I thought as much. Would it be an imposition to ask you to cull through them, find the ones dealing with the murders and bring them to me?”

  “Yeah, a big one,” I said, hiding a grin. “It’d be a lot of work. I’d have to go all through them. But what the hell, anything for a friend.” I turned to go.

  “No.” He was miffed. “I don’t want to impose, David. If it’s too much trouble —”

  I waved it away. “No trouble. Just give me an hour or so and I should be able to find most of them.”

  He tried to call me back but I was gone. I raced to my room, grabbed the pile of newspapers off the floor where I’d left them the night before, and hustled back downstairs. Regan was at his desk opening a personnel file. He looked up in surprise.

  “Did you forget something, David? What —?”

  I walked over and deposited the pile of newspapers on his desk. “Wasn’t quite as much trouble as I expected,” I said, letting him see the grin. He stared at the stack.

  “Sorry for the humor. I couldn’t resist. You were being so polite — so out of character — I decided to give you a hard time. I had them out last night. Naturally, I hadn’t put them away.”

  He shook his head. “I must remember in the future to be less accommodating. The rule still holds, does it? No good deed goes unpunished?”

  “Something like that.” I turned to go. “Well, I’ll put your buddy Fanning through the wringer and let you know how he does. And I hope those papers have a clue in them somewhere. Because I got to tell you, it doesn’t look real good for the home team right now.”

  8

  The jail is not the most depressing institution the City of New York owns and operates. That honor goes to the morgue, hands down. But the jail’s a clear-cut runner-up.

  Baker and I would just as soon have been somewhere — anywhere — else that Saturday afternoon. But at least it was bearable, knowing we could get the hell out when the visit was over. That wasn’t true for me on three other occasions I could tell you about, but I don’t care to relive any of them, so I won’t. But I probably will eventually. My mouth will see to that.

  I took the Bishop’s Seville and picked Dave up at his office on Broadway. We didn’t have much to say. The weather — cold, steady drizzle combined with just enough snow to keep things gray — seemed to sap our energy. And maybe knowing what an uphill battle we had before us had something to do with it.

  Things didn’t brighten up any inside the jail. Even the fat desk sergeant looked dreary.

  “Putcher John Q. right here, gents,” he said tonelessly, pushing the register at us. He sat back in his swivel chair and watched us sign the book through eyes that disappeared into the surrounding flesh. He pulled the book onto his lap without taking his eyes off us. Finally looking down and studying our signatures, he spoke again in the same toneless voice.

  “Which wunna ya’s Baker?”

  Dave flicked a finger.

  “You’re the guy’s lawyer?” Without waiting for an answer, he switched his shrewd gaze to me. “’N who’re you? Name’s Goodman?”

  “Goldman,” I corrected.

  He gave no indication he’d heard me. “’N what’s your b’ness with the prisoner?”

  “He’s a licensed investigator working for me,” Baker put in, irritated. “Show him your license, Davey.”

  I pointed at the desk where I’d already deposited my P.I. license. The officer looked at the license, at me, back at the license. Finally deciding it wasn’t covered with deadly microbes, he picked it up and studied it. Suddenly he let out a bellow, in a voice I wouldn’t have believed he had in him.

  “Fernandez!”

  My heart rate was working its way back to normal when an equally bored-looking but much younger and swarthier man appeared. “Take these two back to Visitors B, Josie,” the sergeant told him. “’N get Fanning for ’em.”

  “Yessir,” was the sullen response, followed by “It’s José, dammit!” under his breath. He may not have intended the last three words to reach the sergeant’s ears, but the smug look on the latter’s face showed that it had. Sulkily, José took us through a door marked Visitors into a depressing room I’ve been in more often than I like to remember.

  It’s long, narrow and gray, divided by a windowed partition into two sections, Inmates and Visitors, and about the only good thing you can say about it is that it’s functional. Six carrels for prisoners and their visitors, bulletproof glass separating the two. Each carrel with its own phone set-up to permit conversation through the thick glass.

  The room was empty when we arrived. The carrel Fernandez directed us to had a double phone hookup on the visitors’ side, permitting three-way conversation.

  As Fernandez left to get Fanning, Baker put his briefcase on the shelf and glumly tried to get comfortable in one of the high-backed straight chairs. Deciding that shifting weight didn’t help any, he gave up, closed his eyes and waited. My own shifting around helped just as little. The chairs were as lousy as they’d always been.

  Baker opened his eyes, gave me a sidelong glance and a suggestion of a smile. “The last time I was here, you were over there,” he murmured, nodding at the glass partition.

  “Don’t remind me,” I mumbled, shifting again. I’d not only been on the other side of the partition, I’d just come from an interrogation by the one and only Charlie Blake, whose grave I’ll never spit on only because I refuse to waste my precious bodily fluids.

  To give Fernandez credit, he didn’t keep us waiting long. We’d barely had time to settle ourselves when the steel door on the inmates’ side of the room opened and the guard reappeared, Fanning behind him. Fernandez pointed at us, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall so he could keep an eye on the situation. Jerry strode over and sat down opposite Dave and me.

  His head was up. He didn’t exactly look cocky, but he sure wasn’t bowing and scraping either. The orange jail coveralls he wore were ugly, although stylewise about on a par with the clothes he’d worn two weeks earlier. And unlike most prisoners, he wasn’t ashamed to make eye contact. The only indicators that he wasn’t where he really wanted to be were his weary, bloodshot eyes.

  Jerry nodded at Baker, took a second or two to recognize me, then gave me a grin.

  Dave and I picked up o
ur phones, and Jerry followed suit. Baker got his eye. “Remember Mr. Goldman, Jerry?”

  The jailbird turned his eyes on me and, still grinning, gave me an incongruous wink. When he spoke, his voice came through thin and distorted and far away. The equipment in that place is a disgrace.

  “Shore. How are you, Mr. Goldman?”

  I grinned back at him, wondering how he could be so cheerful. “Hey, make it Davey. And I’m feeling lucky not to be where you are. What the hell’s going on, Jerry?”

  He grinned and shook his head ruefully. His tone was assured. “You got the right word for it, Mr. Gold — uh, Davey. This place is pure Hades, no ifs, ands, or buts about it!” He shrugged. “No Christian belongs in a place like this.”

  From the corner of an eye I saw Dave shoot me a glance. Without letting Jerry see, I flicked Dave a wink. He’s heard me hold forth on certain late-night occasions, about the way we Jews feel when people use Christian to describe all that’s good and proper in America. But I could hardly take offense at Jerry’s remark.

  “We’ve got some questions, Jerry,” Dave said. “But first, why don’t you go ahead and tell us everything you know about the whole thing?”

  Fanning looked at him. “But like I told you before, Mr. Baker, I don’t know nothing. That’s what’s so doggone frustrating about this whole dern —!” Jerry looked at both of us and took a breath.

  “Well, a’course I knew about the Strangler John murders. Who didn’t?” He looked at me. “You heard me pray on it when I was in your house, uh, Davey.” Eyes back to Baker. “But, I swear, Mr. Baker, I didn’t see no ad, or whatever it was, in no paper about them there REPENT cards I was handing out.

  “That one policeman, that, uh, Lieutenant Blake, I think his name is? Yeah? He said he found that hard to believe. But it’s true! You got to believe me!”