The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  The Bishop was silent till we came to the next red light and I looked at him again. His face was impassive as he divulged Jerry Fanning’s secret. “Mr. Fanning is fascinated by pornography, David. He’s been sneaking out of bed each Friday night to see X-rated films.”

  I stared at the Bishop. “That’s it?” He nodded. A horn blared behind me, kindly alerting me to the fact the light had changed. I drove in silence for a couple of blocks, absorbing the revelation. It didn’t make sense. Porno movies? Sounded like a lame excuse. But the Bishop was apparently buying it, so…maybe.

  But…that Christian fellow? Inveighing against the crimes of the city while himself diving into its sleaziest sleaze?

  Jimmy Swaggart came to mind, along with something someone had said about him: “The guy had to get relief. He was so busy keeping everyone else on the straight and narrow, he thought he was perfect. And that’s a terrible thing to have to live with.”

  I started to chuckle, then immediately turned the chuckle into a cough. The clergyman on my right wasn’t in any mood for chuckling.

  But it was kind of humorous: the fundie sneaking into the theater with the other porno junkies — who’d split their sides laughing if they knew who he was and what he represented. And he’d die of shame if they ever found out.

  Did it have anything to do with his marriage? I thought of young Ida Mae, too modest to use makeup. Did the sights of Times Square make Jerry crave something a little more…exciting?

  The Bishop waited for me to process the information. He didn’t speak till I finally shook my head and said, “I’ll be dammed.”

  “So will Mr. Fanning,” Regan said “or, at least, so he imagines. He is so distraught over his self-perceived failure to live up to his duties that he’s not thinking clearly. I can’t tell you how difficult it was for him to bring himself to confess that to me. Or how relieved he was afterwards.” I glanced over and thought I saw a look of satisfaction. Regan doesn’t hear many confessions. I guess he enjoys getting the opportunity.

  “New York,” he went on, “is the first place he had ever seen theaters blatantly advertising pornography. Nothing like that, I suppose, in Ada. And he found himself fascinated in a way that was both ugly and compelling.”

  I wondered how much of this was from Fanning and how much Regan’s projection. I had plenty of time to wonder, since we’d now arrived at the mansion. I went around to the trunk and got out the wheelchair while Regan opened his door. When I had the wheelchair set he levered himself off the car seat and onto the wheelchair, using those steel bars. I pulled him back up the steps and returned the car to Fred’s. Regan was waiting in his office when I returned.

  “Each Friday night,” he continued, as I sat, “a theater near Mrs. Billings’s home — the Rialto — offers a new racy film. He happened to pass it on his way home from his first Friday night in the city trying to convert the unaccepting multitudes on Times Square — and found himself attracted. He says he fought the temptation all evening. Ultimately he found a useful rationalization: his inability to sleep.

  “He slipped out of bed and went to the theater. Paid the exorbitant five dollars and fifty cents and went in. The film was horrifyingly compelling. I gather X-rated filmmakers these days don’t leave a great deal to the imagination.”

  “Yeah, so I’ve heard.” The boss was discreet enough not to raise an eyebrow.

  “Yes. Well, in any case, Mr. Fanning had terrible guilt pangs the next morning. He wanted to tell his wife but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Too ashamed. Once he’d confessed the sin to God, however, he felt able to face the world with a cleansed heart, convinced he’d never fall again.

  “Only to find himself, the next Friday afternoon, drawn right back to the Rialto, curious to see what the new movie would be. And, of course, that night when he went to bed, he found his mental state the same as the previous week. And so on. All four Friday nights.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And you believe him?”

  Regan smiled. “I do. But as I said, I am not as sanguine about my ability to read human nature as I was yesterday. So we need to verify his story. As I told you, the only reason I made you privy is that you can do so.

  “I suggested strongly that he tell the police and let them do the checking. He could then be released from durance vile. But durance, it seems, is less vile than telling even one more soul of his failure. “

  I thought a moment. “So you want me to check it out.”

  “I do. He tells me Mrs. Fanning should have several photographs of him. Obtain one or more from her, then go to that theater and question the employees. Given your skills, I should think you can establish the veracity of his story — or expose its falsity.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. But where does that get us?” Regan looked surprised. At least I had his attention.

  “Here’s what I mean.” I sat back and crossed my legs. “Suppose I do verify that Jerry’s telling the truth. That’ll be nice. We’ll both know the guy’s innocent, and your faith in your understanding of human nature will be restored. Great, right? But. What good’s it going to do us? It won’t —”

  Regan cut me off. “You mean, of course, that lacking Mr. Fanning’s permission to take our knowledge to the police, our knowledge will not be helpful.”

  “You got it. What good does it do us to know the guy’s innocent when we’ve got nothing to take to the police?”

  “We’ll simply have to find the true murderer.”

  “With a psycho?” I laughed bitterly. “Lots of luck! What are you? An expert at finding a needle in a haystack? Look, Bishop. The only way we’re going to be able to get Jerry off is to take this to the police.”

  “And violate the seal of the confessional?” Regan was outraged.

  “Violate —?” I was sputtering. “What violate? The guy’s got an ironclad alibi and you’re worrying about violating some corny seal? What is this?”

  Regan took a deep breath. “What this is, David, is a solemn obligation I have undertaken. As have you, in agreeing to be bound by it. It isn’t for you or for me to decide what’s best for Mr. Fanning under the circumstances. We have undertaken an obligation. It’s not up for discussion.”

  “Well, I don’t see why the guy’s so het up over a little fling. It’s embarrassing, sure, but what’s the big deal?”

  The Bishop nodded. “The big deal is not Mr. Fanning’s opinion of the gravity of his conduct. The big deal is the solemn obligation I — and you — have undertaken.” He sighed. “Since I agreed to hear his confession — even extrasacramentally — I cannot do other than to honor his insistence. And, as I carefully explained to you, when I extended the obligation to you, neither can you. Going to the police, however wise that may be in abstracto, is not an option.”

  Regan held my eye till I nodded acceptance. “Just obtain that verification,” he concluded. “Once we have that — if we get that — I have an idea or two to share. Our cause may not be as hopeless as you think.”

  16

  No sweat getting the photo of Jerry. Ida Mae showed me a bunch and I picked the best one. Best, of course, is a matter of personal opinion. In this case, it meant the clearest and most recent exposure of Jerry’s face. I took one Ida said she’d taken herself just three months previously. A full body shot, Jerry grinning, standing by a lake, displaying a freshly caught fish. He was barechested and even skinnier without his shirt on. (That’s Jerry, not the fish.) I’d have preferred a blow-up of just the face, but this was okay. Ida Mae thanked me again for the concert and wanted to know if we were getting anywhere. I told her we were working hard.

  I hadn’t come up with an approach to the people at the Rialto. Nor did one occur to me on the drive over. Sometimes you just have to play these things by ear.

  The theater wasn’t doing much business at five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon, but it was open, marquee announcing Daddy’s Favorite Baby-Sitter and Papa Primed to Pump. Apparently it was Father’s Day in Pornoland.

&
nbsp; The ticket window was lit but unmanned. I let myself into the dark, dingy lobby, also empty. I could hear faintly the sounds of the movie. Behind the tiny concession stand was a door marked Manager. I tapped a quarter against the glass counter of the concession. A few seconds later, the door opened and a short, stout middle-aged man emerged.

  “Five-fifty,” he said in a bored tone, giving me a glance and heading for the cash register. Something stopped him before he got to it. He took a long look at me.

  “Vice?” he snapped. That gave me the opening I’d been hoping for.

  I just stared at him. Impassive. Coplike. The man’s eyes shifted. The snap turned into a whine.

  “Hey, pal, I told Langford we’d comply. You guys keep hassling me, I’m going to the mayor, I swear to God! I’ve got friends, you know. I —”

  I stopped him with upraised hand.

  What you never want to do, unless you are one, is tell someone you’re a cop. That can get you into trouble. Prison-type trouble. Impersonating an officer is a felony. On the other hand, you’re not duty-bound to correct any and all misunderstandings that might arise.

  As it happened, I knew Phil Langford. He’d been on the force forever. Went into Vice back when I was in Homicide. He’s one miserable S.O.B. But if the porno man thought Langford and I were buddies, well…

  “You the manager?” I asked, tight-lipped.

  “Yessir. What do you —?”

  I cut him off. “I’ll ask the questions, sir. If you don’t mind. Name?”

  “Walter Macintosh.”

  “Okay, Mr. Macintosh,” I said, pulling Fanning’s photo from my coat pocket. “I’m not really interested in code violations. I’m not with Vice. Just want to know if you’ve ever seen this individual.”

  Relief showed in the manager’s piggy little eyes. He took the picture and squinted at it. His eyes flicked back and forth from it to my face.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “What’s in it for me?”

  Time to get tough. I jerked the picture out of his hand. “You don’t want to play, hmm? Fine. I’ll be back. With Langford.”

  “Hey!” he whined, reaching for the picture. “I only asked who he was. Is that a crime?” I let him take the photo back. He studied it some more.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ve seen him, lemme think a minute.”

  “Take your time, sir.”

  The man squinted at Fanning’s face for another few seconds, tilting the photo from side to side. Suddenly his eyes lighted up.

  “The Eskimo Pie guy!” he exclaimed.

  I waited, trying to be impassive.

  The words tumbled out. “JoAnne was the first one to notice him. That’s him! He’s been coming in here the last few Fridays. We noticed him because he asked for an Eskimo Pie. A hick, right? From Tennessee or somewhere. Can you beat it? An Eskimo Pie! Shit, I don’t have refrigeration — I’m lucky just to have a few candy bars.

  “So JoAnne gets kind of smart-ass with him. Says, ‘Sorry, we’re fresh out. But we’re getting a fresh supply tomorrow. Be sure to come back.’ Then she tells me about it after.

  “Says, ‘Hey, Walter, we’re getting a higher class of customer. They got to have Eskimo Pies!’ We get a good laugh out of it, know what I mean? I told her to let me know if he comes back.

  “And, sure enough, next week, the guy’s back, wanting his Eskimo Pie! JoAnne gets me, playing along, you know. I tell him we just happen to be fresh out, and the guy’s face falls. Same thing’s been happening for weeks — it’s got so JoAnne and I are looking for him on Friday nights to see him ask for his Eskimo Pie!”

  This was good. Maybe too good. “How do you remember it’s Friday nights?” I asked suspiciously.

  He shrugged. “JoAnne only works here one night a week. Mostly I’m here by myself, but weekends I need some help. My son usually helps, only he’s got class on Friday nights this quarter, so JoAnne comes in. Nope, it’s Fridays, all right.”

  I had a few more questions for my new friend, such as time of arrival (“Probably around midnight. Maybe a little after”), time of departure (“Can’t tell you, buddy — uh, sir. Never noticed him leaving”), and were there any side exits in the theater (“Nope. Not without setting off a fire alarm”). Jerry Fanning was off the hook.

  “You will tell Langford, won’t you, Officer?” Macintosh called after me. “I always cooperate with you guys.”

  “Next time I see him,” I promised, without turning or stopping.

  17

  An hour later I was back home in the dining room with Regan, finishing a spicy bouillabaisse Ernie had been simmering all day. Two big bowlfuls each. A satisfying end to a satisfying weekend.

  Regan had held up dinner till I got back from the Rialto, not that I got all choked up over that bit of kindness. I knew he knew that if he ate before I returned, I might just take off. Sally Castle is usually up for some evening fun and games. Then the boss’d have to wait till morning to learn whether his fundie buddy was or wasn’t lying about those Friday nights.

  At first the Bishop wondered whether our porno friend had been truthful with me. I set him straight.

  “Was Macintosh telling it like it was? You better believe it. If you’d seen the man’s face when Langford’s name came up, you’d know. Langford’s the closest thing to the Narc from Hell you ever want to see.”

  I grinned. “And Macintosh got the idea that Langford and I are buddies. Possibly from something I said. Believe me, he’s not going to mess around with any buddy of Langford’s.”

  Regan pushed his soupbowl aside and poured coffee for both of us. “So. Mr. Fanning is exculpated. Excellent.”

  “But let’s not get carried away,” I cautioned, blowing steam off my coffee.

  Regan took a sip of his own coffee, staring at me over the rim.

  “I mean, like I said this afternoon, if Jerry won’t let us use the alibi, we’re no better off, right?”

  Regan just smirked. He can be exasperating.

  “Look.” I clanked the cup back into its saucer. “The killer’s a psycho, okay? Meaning he’s killing at random. So who is he? Before, we knew it had to be one of fourteen million people in the greater metropolitan area. Now that Jerry’s eliminated, we’re down to thirteen million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thou —”

  The Bishop cut me off. “Not necessarily.” Something in his tone told me he had something. Something good.

  “Yes?” I prompted.

  He pivoted abruptly and wheeled for the door, throwing a command over his shoulder: “Bring my coffee, David.”

  “Hey!” I yelled at his back, but he was already out the door. He executed a precise right turn and disappeared down the hall.

  What would he do, I fumed, if I didn’t tag along? But the glint in his eye and the tone in his voice…

  I just had to trail along like a true gofer, trying not to spill coffee on myself.

  In the office, the boss was exercising, wheeling back and forth, from the south wall to his desk and back again. Not aimlessly. I set his coffee on his desk, mine on the little table next to my chair, and had a seat. He spoke on the move.

  “I have an idea, David, which could reduce the list of probable suspects to a manageable level.” Regan stopped moving and swung to face me. He had my absolute attention.

  “What is the outstanding anomaly in this series of murders, David?”

  I stared at him. He stared back. I finally shrugged.

  “All right,” he went on, “a hint: of the four victims, three were prostitutes, one not. Any significance in that?” The boss wheeled to the window as I pondered.

  “Sure,” I said to his back. “The killer made a mistake. He thought Penniston was a prostitute. Understandable. Beautiful young woman wearing plenty of makeup and possibly a slinky outfit, walking alone near Times Square at night. Very natural mistake — unfortunately for her.”

  Regan was wheeling back to his desk by the time I finished. He settled there, seemingly through exercising, at least for the
time being. Thank God. He took a sip of coffee without taking his eyes off me.

  “So, David: a killer’s mistake. Thus the wisdom of the Dispatch. And, apparently, Inspector Kessler as well. As a superficial explanation, before examining all the evidence: perhaps. But it fails to explain a certain crucial fact.”

  I looked away and thought about it. I got an idea, though I didn’t see where it fit.

  “Something to do with the earrings? The killer didn’t rip them off her the way he did the prostitutes.”

  Regan frowned. “An excellent point, David, one that bears investigation. But that doesn’t happen to be the anomaly I’m focusing on at the moment. Frankly, I’m at a loss as to the meaning of the different treatment the murderer gave Miss Penniston’s body as regards the earrings. It’s probably significant, but I’ll need more data before I’ll be able to make anything of that. But it’s a different anomaly that presently concerns me. Any other ideas?”

  I just shrugged. Again. Regan’s tone sharpened.

  “The newspapers, David, have reported that none of the victims put up the slightest semblance of a struggle. True?”

  I nodded. He raised a triumphant finger.

  “And what stands out about that fact?” I shook my head. He scowled. “Come, come, David. It all but leaps out at one!”

  I looked at him for a minute, then threw up my hands. He had me. I guess when your I.Q.’s 220 things leap out at you that don’t leap — or even creep — out at other mortals.

  “I give,” I replied wearily. “Tell me, in your infinite wisdom. What is it that leaps so merrily out at you but not at me?”

  “Wisdom has nothing to do with it, David, infinite or otherwise. It’s a matter of analyzing the pertinent data and finding a theory that fits. And the most pertinent datum at the moment is that the killer was able to strike down all four victims without the slightest struggle. In every case.”

  My boss seemed to be settling in for a seminar, but I didn’t mind. This one I wanted to hear.