“Fran’s got the tape of what Ida Mae told them then, and I’m going over to her office tomorrow and listen to it. I’ll know more after I hear it but from what Fran says, it’s a real ballbuster. According to Fran, Ida Mae told them that Jerry’d gone out — get this — every Friday night since they’ve been in New York. Went out a little before midnight and never got home before two.” He paused, then added, enunciating every syllable like a lawyer, “Every Friday, Davey. That’s four Fridays, four murders.
“What’s even scarier to me is that the guy lied to his wife. Kessler asked her if she ever confronted Jerry about these walkabouts. And she said she did. But he denied everything. Told her she must have been dreaming.”
Baker paused, possibly waiting for applause. Got none. Sighed. “And this is a guy who, I’m convinced, is genuinely devoted to his wife. So why’d he lie to her, Davey? Why? I know I’ve got an evil mind, but me, I can think of one very good reason.”
I was trying to get my brain around this newest piece of news, but Baker wasn’t offering any time out for meditation.
“I got to tell you, man, this guy’s losing me fast. Oh, I’ll represent him. In fact, as far as representing him goes, I’d say I’ve got a decent chance of getting him off. With a little luck. I mean, everything they’ve got is circumstantial. So I could probably throw enough dust to get a hung jury; maybe even a not guilty. I suggested as much to Fran, and asked about copping a plea. She sneered in my face, said I knew better than that. And, of course, I do. Fran’d never get away with plea bargaining this one. Can you imagine what the papers’d do to Harrington if he dared to offer a deal to Strangler John? Hah!
“Anyway, I can put on a case. Assuming the cops don’t come up with a fingerprint or an eyewitness or some such. I just wish the S.O.B. would level with me. I mean Jerry.”
I thought of something. “Hey, wait a minute, Dave. Fran can’t use this, can she? In court? I mean, a wife can’t testify against her husband, can she?”
He laughed at my naiveté. “Don’t kid yourself, Davey. That’s what people think, but it’s not true. At least, not in this case. In New York, as in most states, there is a spousal privilege that can be invoked by a defendant in a criminal matter.
“But that’s only regarding hearsay evidence. It’s the law’s way of protecting what spouses tell each other in private.
“But that doesn’t help Fanning. See, he didn’t tell Ida a thing. All she’ll be asked to testify to is what she saw him do. Which will be plenty to nail Jerry’s hide to the wall. And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.”
“News to me,” I muttered. I thought some more. “But what if she refuses to take the stand?”
“Contempt of court, baby. She’ll be under subpoena. Of course, the cops are redoubling their search for hard evidence, now that they’re sure Jerry’s it. And they’ll probably find some. When they do, they won’t need her any more. And Jerry’ll be shit outta luck.”
We agreed to stay in touch. Dave planned to have another longer and franker conversation with his client. My own immediate project was to fill the boss in. I doubted that he was going to be very happy with this new piece of information.
12
“What? She said what?” Regan was mad at me.
“You heard me,” I answered calmly. I had gone straight into his office with a quick tap on the door, interrupting his study of three impressive-looking books. (All I can tell you about them is that they were in three different languages, none of them English. And don’t ask me where he digs them up. I haven’t got a clue.)
At first the Bishop was annoyed at being interrupted. Annoyance quickly changed to shock as he heard of Jerry’s Friday night prowl-abouts.
I couldn’t blame him for being upset. A hell of a thing to learn you’ve probably been made a fool of by none other than Strangler John himself. That’s how I was now reading it; I assumed he’d agree with me on that, after he’d had time to assimilate the news.
His eyes narrowed. “So he left their apartment every Friday night? And was gone for several hours? Without explanation?”
“You got it.” I was trying to supply objectivity for both of us. Regan seemed to have lost his. He glared at me as he drew the obvious conclusion.
“What you’re telling me is that Mr. Fanning is probably a multiple murderer.” He shook his head. “How could I have misjudged the man’s character so completely?”
He pounded his palms on the arms of his wheelchair, spun and began wheeling aimlessly around the office. Bad sign. He stopped abruptly and pounded the arms of the chair again.
“No! I still can’t accept it. David, I must talk with Mrs. Fanning. Something’s not right.” He looked at the floor for a minute, then back at me. His eyes seemed to plead with me.
“Try to get her, David. I must see her as soon as possible. You can use my phone if you like.” Regan swung around and headed for his beloved south windows.
“Hold it,” I called after him. “You mean get her on the phone? Or go get her and bring her over here?”
A quarter-inch shrug of the shoulders was all my boss could manage. He was down. Well, if he wanted to act strange, so could I. So I did something I’d never done before: pulled my chair around and sat at his desk to call. I even considered putting my feet on the desk, but that was just a moment of temporary insanity.
I dialed the number from memory. I have a habit of memorizing numbers. Comes in handy once in a great while. Like this time.
The woman who answered had the right-sounding twang, but the timbre was middle-aged. “Ee-yellow!” was the way the word came out. Somewhere between three and four syllables, with a rising tone on the second syllable, falling on the last. I guessed this was Miz Billings, the acquaintance from Oklahoma with whom Jerry had told me they were staying. Whoever it was, she definitely hadn’t grown up in the Bronx.
“May I speak with Mrs. Fanning, please?”
The voice turned vaguely hostile. “Who’s callin’?”
“It’s David Goldman, ma’am, a friend of her husband. May I speak to her, please?”
Silence for a moment. Then, “Idy Mae! ’S for you, hon.”
More silence, broken intermittently by the sound of a baby gurgling, then a new voice, same number of syllables per word, but thirty years younger-sounding: “Ee-yellow.”
“Mrs. Fanning? My name is David Goldman. Possibly your husband has mentioned me?”
Brief pause; then a torrent of words.
“Yes he did and I want to thank you for the hep you’re being to him, Mr. Goldman, ’cause we just don’t know anyone in this here city, and I just hate it, and Joe Bob’s unhappy, and Miz Billings wants us to leave, and I just don’t know what to do.”
Her voice was starting to crack with the last few words, possibly from lack of oxygen. She took a breath and I jumped in.
“Mrs. Billings has asked you to leave? I’m surprised. Your husband told me she was a nice lady.”
“Well, she is, Mr. Goldman. She even said she’d keep Joe Bob for us till we found a place — she really likes the baby — but she says she’s tired of all the policemen hanging around. And now there’s reporters too. So you cain’t rightly blame her none.
“I just don’t know where to turn to. That one policeman — that Lieutenant Blake — he was nice for a while and said he’d help, but now he’s changed and won’t talk to us and a body gets so unhappy you just don’t know where to turn, you know? I mean, I just don’t have anyone in this —”
I had to cut her off or she soon wouldn’t have air enough to talk at all. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mrs. Fanning, but how about coming over here? Uh, for a while. We’re only a few blocks away, and I’d be happy to —”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m about to put Joe Bob to bed and I got to stay here with him. I cain’t go anywhere. I ain’t been anywhere since we got here.”
Ida Mae was starting to sound weepy. I looked at the Timex: 5:17. I had a sudden thought. Make
that three.
One was that Jerry had mentioned he’d wanted to take Ida Mae to an Amy Grant concert tonight. I’d noted in the Times that the concert was at the Shubert and that tickets were still available through Hot Tix.
Second, Ernie had once worked in an orphanage, she’d told me on some occasion — part of her long and checkered career as a nun. It occurred to me that she’d probably changed a diaper or two along the way.
Three was that Sally was tied up this evening and I’d made no plans. A bachelor with nothing to do on a Saturday night is what Regan calls a contradictio in terminis.
“I understand what you’re saying, Mrs. Fanning, but you know about us from Jerry. You know he trusts us, don’t you?”
“I expect,” she said reluctantly.
“Well, you’re having a hard time over there from all the police and reporters. Let me come over and pick you and the baby up. No, no, please let me finish. I’ll bring you here — we’re only a few blocks away — and there’s a lady here that knows babies backwards, forwards and sideways. You can trust her with, uh, Joe Bob.
“The Bishop wants to chat with you for just a few minutes, then I thought you and I could go somewhere, have a quiet, relaxing dinner. After dinner, if you’re interested, we could go to a concert. Maybe you’ve heard of the singer, Amy Grant. She’s at the Shubert tonight. And I just happen to have a couple of tickets.”
There was a moment of silence. Then, in a small voice, “Yes, I’ve heard of Amy Grant. I love Amy Grant.” Pause. “Are you a Christian, Mr. Goldman?”
I groaned inwardly. If I’d ever heard a question that answered itself, that was it. But I kept my voice serious, and hedged. “I hesitate to call myself that, Mrs. Fanning. But I am a big fan of Amy Grant.”
Her next question signaled surrender. “Who’s the lady that’d take care of Joe Bob?” I gave her some pertinent facts and figures about Sister Ernestine, and that did it.
“I could be ready in twenty minutes, Mr. Goldman. If that’s not too —”
“Not at all. I’ll be at your front door in twenty minutes.” We hung up.
Regan wheeled in my direction. “Who’s Amy Grant?”
“And you call yourself a Christian!” I scolded, vacating his desk. “She’s only the finest Christian rock singer in the world is all!”
Well, that’s what the Times had said someone said.
Regan rolled to his desk, shaking his head. “Christian rock singer.” He shook his head again, then looked at me.
“But far be it from me to criticize your methods. Just please don’t tell Sarah I’m responsible for your attending Christian rock concerts.” (The Bishop and my mother, who are pretty good friends, have an unspoken pact that he won’t proselytize.)
He was still bothered by his apparent mistake in character-reading. He got my eye. “Answer this question, David. If you think Mr. Fanning committed these heinous acts, why is he carrying that Bible?” Regan shook his head. “He’s surely not insane.”
I shrugged. “Look, I’m no psychologist.” The boss’s expression didn’t change. I was going to have to do better.
“Okay,” I sighed. “Look at it this way. Here we have a guy with a criminal record: a violent criminal record.
“Think about it. He’s a born-again Christian, comes to New York and these women are flaunting every standard he —”
“Flouting,” Regan muttered.
“Yeah, that too. Anyway, not following the standards he finds in that Bible of his.
“Hey, he’s a born-again Okie. He freaked out! Hell, I was born and raised here and it freaks me out sometimes! So — he starts offing sinners.” I shrugged. “It happens.”
The Bishop swung away from me. “Quite apart from your abominable phraseology, I can’t agree with your assessment of the man’s personality.” He pivoted back to his desk. “Nonetheless, Mrs. Fanning’s purported story is worrisome. How am I to account for those Friday-night absences? And his lies? And his guilty demeanor?”
He pulled a couple of personnel files toward him across the desk and put his reading glasses on his nose. “Well, thanks to your good offices, we’ll soon be talking with Mrs. Fanning. Let’s see what she has to say.”
13
Believe it or not, I actually found a parking place on Thirty-seventh when I returned with Mrs. and Baby Fanning. Twice in one day — undoubtedly a record.
I’d called Hot Tix and arranged for two Amy Grant tickets to be waiting for us at the Shubert box office. Then I went to pick up Ida Mae.
The place on Gramercy was a rundown townhouse. Mrs. Billings — stout, middle-aged, untidy hair ninety percent gray — answered the door and was friendly enough, but we didn’t have time to get acquainted. Ida Mae came on with a rush, baby on her shoulder.
“Don’t wait up, Miz Billings. I have my key. I’ll come in as quiet as I can.”
Ida tried to pull her inadequate cloth coat around both her and the baby. I hoped she had something warmer to get through the New York winter — if she was going to stay through the winter. I found myself wondering where she’d go if Jerry took a trip up the river for a stretch of life-times-four.
Joe Bob didn’t wake till the end of the car ride, his head resting comfortably on his mother’s shoulder. He did shift positions when she settled onto the seat, and stuck his thumb in his mouth. But his breathing stayed smooth and regular, his eyes closed.
But in the hundred-foot walk from the car to our front door he awoke with a vengeance. With nothing to shield him from the wintry wind but the lapel of Ida Mae’s meager coat, he got very unhappy and wanted the whole world to know it.
The Bishop, alerted by the screaming, was waiting at the office door. He took Ida Mae’s hand, saying around the wails, “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Fanning, about your predicament. Won’t you please sit down?”
She didn’t obey but did follow him into the office, continuing to pat the thrashing baby. I could barely hear her answer. “Thank you for having me over, uh, Bishop. I really appreciate you-all taking an interest in Jerry and all. I just —”
The Bishop interrupted her by wheeling to his desk and ringing the little silver bell to summon Ernie. I wondered how he expected Ernie to hear it over the racket, but he gave it a healthy jingle.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Fanning,” Regan said, timing his words to coincide with Joe Bob’s oxygen intakes. “We will do better, speaking of such serious matters, uninterrupted. Ah, Sister Ernestine.”
I shook my head: Ernie had heard the bell. Had to be ESP. I’d been right there and I couldn’t hear it. “This is Mrs. Fanning. Would you be so kind as to take young Joseph with you to the kitchen? We have matters to discuss.”
“Oh, no,” Ida Mae said. “Joe Bob won’t go with —”
But the baby had other ideas. Ernie’s long robes had caught his eye as soon as she came in the room. Curiosity soon became fascination. Holding out both hands, he smiled at the nun, making friendly coos and gurgles.
“Well, who do you think you’re looking at, little one?” Ernie asked him, delighted at his delight. “You come right here, you hear?” She moved in and swooped the baby up with a by-your-leave smile at the surprised mother.
The nun executed a quick spin, drawing a happy squeal from her tiny burden, and turned back to the dumbfounded Ida.
“We’ll just be right next door, dear. Don’t you worry your head, we’ll be fine. I’ve handled many a baby in my day.” Before the startled mother could answer, Ernie was gone with a final flourish of her long dress and another happy yelp from Joe Bob.
Regan smiled. “Not to worry, Mrs. Fanning. Sister is extremely competent and, in any case, will be well within shouting distance. Please be so kind as to take that seat.”
Now in control, the Bishop got down to business. Ida Mae let me have her coat and sank into the chair in front of the Bishop’s desk, pulling her skirt over her knees. With the baby no longer blocking the view, I had a chance to look her over.
Not that there was a
lot to look over. If she’d been a car, she’d have been a subcompact. Jerry’d said she was twenty-one; she could have passed for sixteen. Little feet, small, shapely legs under the worn cotton dress, petite body, small round face. The only thing big about her were her black, curious eyes. Also there was something odd about her, hard to say what. It had to do with youth and innocence, but I couldn’t put a finger on it.
The Bishop tilted his head forward and studied her over his reading glasses. “Thanks for coming, Mrs. Fanning. It was kind of you to oblige me on short notice.”
She tried to smile. “You’re being awful nice to us, Bishop. By the way, is it right to call you Bishop? That’s what Jerry said he called you.” Regan nodded.
“Anyhow,” she went on, “I guess the least I can do is try to help you, when you’re trying to help Jerry. You are helping, aren’t you?”
“Trying,” Regan corrected grimly. He took a breath, continuing to study her. “Mrs. Fanning. As you know, your husband is in a great deal of jeopardy. Mr. Goldman and I were prepared to offer our services to help him, but — to be brutally honest — any assistance we could give would be based on an assumption of innocence. Speaking for myself, I was ready to make that assumption, based on the assessment I made of his character and personality during his visit here two weeks ago.
“But now it has come to my attention that the police have some highly incriminating information about him — information which I hope you can help me understand and perhaps dispel.”
Ida Mae’s big, dark eyes got bigger. I suddenly realized what was odd about her: she wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup. Attractive enough as she was, she’d have been a sure knockout with some mascara, lipstick and whatever else women do to their faces.
“Why, I’ll sure try,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll tell you what I can.”
I wondered if she was having a hard time keeping up with all those three-dollar words Regan threw around so freely.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 7