The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  “Good. First of all, let me ask you a question about your husband’s past. The police are saying that he has a history of violent crime. Any comment?”

  She reddened a little, but stayed calm. “Didn’t Jerry tell you about that? I thought —”

  She broke off. “All right,” she resumed, nodding vigorously. “Back before Jerry and I were married; way before, back before he was even a Christian, he had him a wild streak.

  “See, Jerry never had him a regular family, way I did. He grew up in foster homes from little on. Mr. and Mrs. Miller kept him the most, and they used to bring him to church with them — that was Christ Baptist, the same church I went to with my family.

  “Well, when he was only thirteen, Jerry got in with a bad bunch, and got in trouble with the police, you know? And things just kept getting worse after that.

  “And when he was, oh, about seventeen, he got arrested for robbing a liquor store — they called it armed robbery and I guess that’s what it was, all right. He got convicted.”

  Talking about the man she loved seemed to brighten Ida Mae’s whole personality. Her shoulders straightened, she sat up straight and her dark eyes glowed.

  “Anyhow, they were going to send him to McAlester. That’s a terrible place, and I was just heartbroken. See, I was only fourteen-and-a-half at the time, but I was already a Christian — I was baptized when I was eleven — and I was crazy for Jerry. Still am.” Regan winced, but she didn’t notice.

  “Well, I went to my Aunt Ida, she’s the one I was named after, you know? And Aunt Ida just couldn’t have been sweeter.

  “She marched me straight over to Mr. Paul Brown’s office, he’s just about the best lawyer in Pontotoc County, maybe the whole state, and she hired him on the spot. He filed appeals and I don’t know what all, and he somehow got that case plumb thrown out on grounds of — Well, I don’t rightly recollect what it was, it was some kind of lawyer talk, you know? But he sure got him off.”

  It was obvious the girl was coming to the good part, the way her eyes were shining. “Well, the other thing that happened when I was going so much to see Jerry in jail was that he become a Christian and got baptized. He just loved the Lord, and the way he’s lived as a Christian ever since proves it!

  “Course, my mom and dad said that was just to get me to marry him. But we didn’t get married for three years after that, and that’s not why he become a Christian! It’s not!”

  Regan changed the subject. “All right. Let’s ignore the criminal record. But we have a more important, a much more worrisome development to cover. The matter of your husband’s Friday-night peregrinations. Tell me about them.”

  Ida Mae looked away and blushed. “Do I have to?” Her voice had changed to a childish treble.

  Regan’s eyes were giving her no quarter. “Indeed you do, Mrs. Fanning. At least, if you want our help.” She looked at him and took a deep breath.

  “All right. But Jerry’s real mad at me right now about it. Wouldn’t look at me for the longest time today. Said, ‘Why’d you have to go tell them that, Ida Mae?’”

  She looked appealingly at Regan. He didn’t change expressions.

  She nodded. “All right, Bishop. I’ll tell you what I told that inspector. But he tricked me! He wasn’t being fair at all! He told me Jerry’d told them all about it!”

  “Do you know where they got the idea of it in the first place, Ida Mae?” I asked.

  She swung to me, blushing. “It’s probably my fault. The first time they talked to me, they asked whether Jerry was always home on Friday nights, and I, I kind of hesitated.” She looked angry. “I’m just not a good liar, I can’t help it!”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of, surely,” Regan murmured.

  “Maybe not, Bishop, but I sure wished I was better at it this time. For Jerry’s sake. Anyhow, they kept after me and kept after me, and I just got so confused! Then, when they finally come in this morning and told me Jerry’d told the truth finally, I was so relieved! It was like the dam had busted, and I could finally tell them the real truth.

  “And almost right away I knew they’d tricked me. I could see by the looks on their faces how happy they were that I’d said that. I felt like such a fool!”

  The tears finally came. Ida Mae didn’t try to hide them or turn away. She just sat there and bawled like a little kid. Kind of endearing.

  Except tears always make me uncomfortable. I want to say something, do something. But there’s never anything to say or do. Regan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind in the least. He just waited patiently, staring at her, until she stopped. Then he turned to me, sarcasm in his voice.

  “Some Kleenex, David. If it’s not too much trouble.” I jumped up guiltily and got it from his desk drawer. I guess there is something you can do.

  Ida blew her nose and looked expectantly at the Bishop. As did I. How was he going to get Jerry out of this one?

  Well, for openers, by asking ten million questions. He spent the next two hours going over the Fannings’ nighttime routine. What time did they go to bed? Just when, on those Friday nights, had Jerry gotten up and gone? When did he return? Had he left on any other nights? I took a ton of notes, trying to ignore my stomach growling as the dinner hour came and went. Here’s what it all came to:

  The first Friday they’d been in town, October 13, Jerry had gotten home later than usual: a little after ten. He said he’d been handing out REPENT cards in Times Square. He’d told Ida how discouraged he was by the indifference of everyone — theater patrons, tourists, pimps and prostitutes — that hung out there.

  “He was real down that night,” Ida said. “I tried to kind of comfort him, but he was just real blue.” He’d even shortened their evening prayers from half an hour to ten minutes.

  “It was a couple of hours later,” Ida Mae went on in a hushed voice. “Something woke me up. It was dark, but I reached over to feel, and Jerry was gone. I figured he must have gone to the bathroom — it’s down the hall — but I waited and waited, and he didn’t come back.

  “I finally went and looked in the bathroom and in Joe Bob’s room, but he wasn’t there. Went downstairs, but Mrs. Billings’s door was closed like always at night. He was plumb gone.

  “I went back to bed and waited but I must’ve fallen asleep. Next thing I knew, it was morning, and Jerry was getting me up.”

  “Did he seem…different?” Regan asked.

  Ida Mae looked at him and nodded slowly. “In a way he did. He couldn’t look at me. Well — not until we prayed. Praying seemed to make him feel better. During it, he asked forgiveness of the Lord. Didn’t say what for. Even cried when he did it. I wanted to ask him — I wanted to ask him about where he’d gone, but I didn’t have the…the nerve, I guess.” Her voice caught. “Now I wish I would of.”

  Regan frowned. “But I understood you did ask him.” Ida nodded. “And when was that?”

  “The next time. The same thing happened, only this time he woke me, coming in. It was after three, and I turned on the light. He said he was sorry, he’d just been to the bathroom. He had his pajamas on. I didn’t say anything. I hadn’t been awake, so how could I know?

  “So I waited fifteen minutes till he fell asleep. Then I got up and went in the bathroom. And there were his clothes rolled up, lying on the floor. I felt them and they were still warm. Next morning, of course, he’d gotten up before me, and the clothes’d all been put away. When I saw that, I had to ask him. He told me I’d been dreamin’. I could just tell, lookin’ at him tellin’ me that, he’d worked it all out ahead of time, just in case I did ask. He tried to smile, only it wasn’t much of a smile, Bishop.” She started weeping again.

  I shook my head and looked at Regan. Never had I heard a wife incriminate her husband so devastatingly. Was the Bishop reading it the way I was? His face gave no clue.

  So I asked my one question. “In all confidence, Ida Mae, what do you think? Did Jerry kill those four women? Tell us what you think in your heart.”
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br />   Ida lifted her chin and faced me through the tears.

  “He most certainly did not!”

  I was convinced she really believed what she was saying and wished I could agree. I’d now reached my conclusion. Jerry Fanning had to be Strangler John. I could almost see Fran Wilson licking her chops.

  14

  I was stirring some cream and sugar into my coffee at 8:30 Sunday morning, watching Ernie bustle around the kitchen. Ernie’s one of those people — usually women of a certain age — who are never happy unless they’re doing something. When they run out of things to do, they’ll undo everything they just did so they can get busy redoing it.

  “You look better than usual for a morning-after, David,” she commented.

  “Morning-after? Are you kidding? Ernie, I was out with a Baptist! No smoking, no drinking, no dancing, no fun. If there’s any difference between a Baptist and a nun, I can’t tell it!” She glared at me, and I grinned back.

  “Actually, we had a pretty good time. Amy Grant probably won’t be my pick next time I go to a concert, but she’s okay, and it was nice to see how much Ida Mae appreciated her. She had a great time.

  “Then, since the boss’s long-windedness made us miss dinner here, we stopped at Sarto’s for a quick bite on the way back. That wasn’t such a good idea. She was too anxious to enjoy the tortellini, not knowing what kind of torture you and the Bishop were putting Joe Bob through. So we got back early — as you noticed.”

  She sniffed. “Early by your standards, maybe. If I have to stay up till midnight again, I’m going to be old before my time.”

  “Aw, come on, Ernie. You’ll never get old. And you didn’t have to stay up! I told you, put the kid to bed and relax. Ida Mae says he never wakes up. Hey, he didn’t even stir getting in or out of the car when I took them home.”

  “Oh, you say that, David, but whose fault would it have been if he’d rolled off the couch and cut his precious little head open? I —”

  “Don’t feed me that line of bull, Ernie! You stayed up for one reason only — you wanted to look at the little guy. I bet you and the boss fought over him all evening!”

  She smiled. “He is a nice boy.” Then she glared at me again. “But it’s a good thing the Bishop has no children. Another hour with him and little Joseph would have been spoiled rotten.”

  She put a substantial omelette in front of me and departed. Her Sunday routine is no different than any other day. She goes up to the chapel a little before nine to pray and “assist the Bishop at mass,” whatever that means.

  While I ate I checked out the latest on Fanning, “the alleged Strangler,” in the Sunday Times. Under the headline, “Alleged Strangler Had Violent History,” the story related some of what Ida Mae had told us the day before — i.e., Jerry’s Friday-night outings and his criminal record back in Oklahoma — but with a very different slant.

  The article cited “a highly placed police official who requested anonymity” and I had no doubt about it being Kessler. Kessler’s a good cop, as cops go, but he’s not above using the media to influence public opinion when he thinks it might help him win a case.

  I called Baker from my office, catching him as he was heading for church. Learning that I had talked directly with Ida Mae, he promised to call me back as soon as he got home. Which he did, a little after ten, and I filled him in. Then he took a minute to think.

  “Okay, Davey,” he finally said. “It’s a tough one. But I’m still going to bust my tail. I’ll hear that tape of Ida this afternoon. And talk to Jerry first thing in the morning about copping a plea.

  “Fran’s not going to like it, and Harrington’ll probably tell me to shove it where the moon don’t shine. But he’s a little scared of me. I’ve beat him more often than not. And there’s lots of little technical things on this one that’ll let me tie him up in knots for months.

  “Maybe if I give him a pound of flesh — say at least seven years in the slammer, no chance of parole — he might go along. That’s tough on Jerry. But you and I are now agreed he’s guilty as hell, so screw what he wants or doesn’t want. Anyway, thanks for the fill-in. Talk to you tomorrow.” He rang off, leaving me wondering where this left the Bishop and me. That question was answered almost immediately. Ernie was in the doorway saying, “Bishop Regan wants to see you up in the chapel right away, David.”

  I stared at her. “Has he gone nuts? He never invites me up there. Do you think maybe God’s finally told him the truth and he’s ready to convert — to Judaism?” Ernie didn’t even smile. Catholics can never take a joke.

  He was in the usual spot, right in front of the altar. I wondered if Ernie had misunderstood his instructions. His eyes were closed and he didn’t hear my approach. I finally gave a little cough and his eyes popped open.

  “Ah, David. Thank you for coming up. I want to go visit Mr. Fanning at his place of incarceration. Arrange it, please.”

  I didn’t bother to argue this time. For one thing, I was all argued out. For another, he’d closed his eyes and gone back into his private world. I had plenty of questions but he wasn’t in the mood. I was on my own. I spun around and headed back downstairs to see what I could arrange.

  15

  I guess what ticked me off most was Regan’s total refusal to let me go with him into the visitors’ room.

  “But someone ought to take notes,” I complained.

  “Out of the question. Just wait for me here in the waiting room, David. A little patient waiting never hurt anyone; least of all one with the inordinate proclivity for precipitate action you constantly demonstrate.”

  “But —” He spun around, ignoring me. All my buts weren’t going to get my butt into that visitors’ room; his mind was made up. Off he went, following the guard, restraining his inordinate proclivity for precipitate speed in that wheelchair of his.

  Getting him visitors’ privileges hadn’t been all that easy. I’d finally had to resort to calling Fran Wilson at her apartment. I’d had the foresight to hang onto her private, unlisted number after our short but steamy relationship came to an abrupt end three years ago.

  Fran didn’t exactly bubble over with joy when I told her why I was calling. But some adroit persuasion convinced her that for purposes of spiritual comfort, a bishop ought to be able to visit even Strangler John. She called the jail and gave the okay.

  (My telling her that if she didn’t feel she should do it I’d have to have Regan call Harrington and make arrangements directly may have given her the false impression that the Bishop and her boss are buddies. They’re not. In fact, Regan can barely stand Harrington, a feeling I suspect Harrington reciprocates. But is it my fault if Fran draws the wrong conclusion from an offhanded comment of mine?)

  Once Fran agreed to make the call, getting the Bishop to the jail was no big deal. Just took a little planning and forethought. I had the Caddy brought around to our front door by a guy at the garage where we keep it — Fred’s, around the corner on Eleventh Avenue.

  I bumped the Bishop down the eight steps of the stoop, and he got himself into the car with the help of a couple of steel bars he’s had installed on it.

  At the jail I got him up the ramp and inside with no difficulty. As far I knew, it was his first visit there, but it didn’t seem to depress him as much as it does me. Maybe that’s because he knows he’s never going to have to spend the night there. That’s an assurance sad experience has taught me I have no right to share.

  After doing all the work of getting him there, being told I had to cool my heels in the waiting room didn’t exactly fill me with joy. But during the forty-five-minute wait, sitting in a chair a lot more comfortable than the one I’d occupied in the visitors’ room the day before, I began to see Regan’s point.

  He was undoubtedly talking to Jerry as a spiritual adviser. So it had to be alone. I guessed I could live with that.

  When the boss came wheeling back into the waiting room, I tried to read the expression on his face. Wasted effort. And his mouth wa
s as uncommunicative as his face. He didn’t say a word till we were in the car and moving.

  When he finally spoke, his tone was triumphant. “Mr. Fanning is innocent, Davey!”

  My head swiveled so violently the car actually swerved. I wasn’t so shocked by his announcement about Jerry, though that was startling enough. Nor by the unexpected certainty in his voice. It was his calling me Davey. He never calls me Davey.

  “You’re kidding! How can you be so sure?”

  He calmed down. “Well, I shouldn’t be so absolute. I’ve become a bit less sanguine over the past twenty-four hours regarding my ability to discern when people are telling me the truth. About anything whatsoever.

  “However, Mr. Fanning has just made the most embarrassing of confessions. I am convinced — well, almost convinced — he was telling the truth. If he was, he is innocent.”

  “He made a confession? Of what?”

  Regan waited. He wanted to have my eye. I slowed for a yellow light, and pulled up to the intersection as the light turned red. A couple of pedestrians gaped at such un-New York-like driving, but I ignored them.

  “David,” Regan said solemnly, holding my eyes with his, “it must be understood that my revealing Mr. Fanning’s secret to you —” He raised a finger of warning. “— assuming he was truthful — is the moral equivalent of the seal of the confessional. What you’re about to hear is as confidential as anything you’ll ever hear from me. Mr. Fanning only agreed to permit me to tell you when I informed him I could not act without your knowing. As I’ll explain in a moment.

  “He absolutely refuses to permit me to reveal it to anyone else, not even to Mrs. Fanning — indeed, especially not to her. And not to the police, even though, if he’s telling the truth, it would mean his immediate release.”

  I turned back to the street as the light turned green. “So,” I frowned, accelerating, “You want an oath or something? Okay, you got it. Now, what’s his secret?”

  Regan struck me as a bit overwrought. And why was Jerry being so stubborn about it? If the Bishop was right — if Jerry could get out of jail by giving up his secret — why hold back?