“Approach it from the killer’s perspective, David. If one assumes (as apparently everyone, including the police, has) that he was a stranger to these women, how do you explain his ability to get close enough to each one to slip a garroting wire around her throat — without a struggle?” He’d given up waiting for my wisdom. “For the three prostitutes,” he continued, “the question answers itself. The very essence of the intercourse — make that the relationship — between a prostitute and her client is physical proximity. She’d have no reason to be alarmed at his closeness, physical proximity being part and parcel of the service she offers. Prostitution is said to be the oldest profession. That’s unlikely. But it is certainly the most dangerous. Constant physical proximity to strangers in the midst of extralegal activity makes it so. “
I frowned at him as the ever-patient teacher waited for my comment. “I don’t see where you’re heading,” I said finally.
“But surely it’s plain —” He took a deep breath. “Now here, David. The killer’s ability to achieve physical proximity to three of the victims requires no explanation. It follows from the very nature of their work.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
“What are we then to make of Miss Penniston? A beautiful, wealthy, successful woman. And certainly no prostitute. Apparently no one knows what she was doing at or near Ninth and Forty-ninth that evening, but — for now — that need not concern us. Whatever her reason for being there, she permitted the murderer to approach her, accompany her, throw a wire around her neck and strangle her. All without a struggle.”
“Yeah. Just like the other three. So what?”
“Precisely, David: just like the other three! The question no one is bothering to ask — not you, not the police, not the newspapers — is this: if he was a stranger to her, how did the murderer manage to gain the proximity needed to murder her without a struggle?”
I stared at him. “Uh, some pretext, I suppose. I guess he just — I don’t know, asked her for directions or something.”
The Bishop shook his head. “No. It simply isn’t possible that a woman of Laura Penniston’s intelligence and standing would have permitted a stranger to gain that degree of proximity. Not at night and not in a strange neighborhood. Even under normal circumstances, I’d need some convincing to believe it. Given the well-publicized menace of a strangler on the loose, it’s untenable. I refuse to accept it.”
“So?” I was puzzled. “What are you saying? She wasn’t killed the way they think?”
“I’m saying, David, that she was killed the way the three others were. But how can that be? For the others, their profession is sufficient explanation. Not for her. For Laura Penniston, only one explanation suffices. She knew her attacker, knew him well. She was killed by a close acquaintance, probably a friend.” Regan watched me, waiting for my reaction. I thought before I spoke.
“Okay, maybe. But where does that leave us?”
The Bishop nodded briskly. “I believe it leaves us with only two alternatives. Either Miss Penniston’s murderer was a so-called copycat, taking advantage of the serial killer’s reign of terror to rid himself of her; or he was one who deliberately created a reign of terror as mere camouflage for his murder of Laura Penniston. If the latter, the other three victims were no more than pawns in his overall strategy. Which alternative do you prefer?”
I remembered something I’d read in the Dispatch. “Well, you can forget the copycat angle. The police considered that, according to Rozanski, and threw it out. The M.O. was the same in all four cases and, from the marks on the victims, so was the wire he did it with.”
“Precisely. So, David, we are looking for a monster. Someone who sacrificed three innocent victims to disguise his murder of a fourth.”
I thought about it and shook my head. “The police are never going to buy it.”
Regan exuded satisfaction and confidence. “Of course not, David. Especially not when they have a man in custody. Leaving the field open to us. Where do we start?”
That was the first question he’d asked to which I had a useful response.
“Well,” I allowed. “I had a long talk with a buddy at headquarters yesterday.” And proceeded to give him what Joe Parker had given me. When I got to the part about the picture of the dead Laura Penniston’s hand, I excused myself and dashed into my office. Twenty seconds later I was back with the photostat. I didn’t know how, but I had a feeling my boss might be able to make something of it.
Panting slightly, I slid the photostat of Laura Penniston’s hand across the shiny wooden desktop. The Bishop glanced at it and gave me a quizzical look.
“Yeah, I do get ideas,” I told him. “About one a year. When Joe Parker showed me that yesterday, I made a copy. What you’re looking at is the left hand of Laura Penniston’s corpse.”
Regan stared at me, then looked down at the sheet of paper. He picked it up, frowned, glanced at me, and started studying it. After a few seconds he leaned forward, flipped on his high-intensity desk lamp and bent over the paper, eyes about two inches from it.
“Don’t tell Kessler,” I instructed the top of Regan’s head. “He’d be a tad unhappy to know I’ve got it.”
The Bishop studied it for a minute or two, then said, without looking up, “What do these letters signify?”
“Ah! That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question! Kessler and Blake would love to know, the task force would love to know. Hell, I’d love to know myself. So never mind the questions. I’m looking for answers.”
Regan didn’t answer or look up. He continued studying the photostat for another thirty seconds.
“It looks like G O S T,” he muttered, then looked up at me, his face in shadows behind the brightness of the lamp. “No one has any idea what this means?”
“Right. And, to answer your next question, they don’t know who wrote it. But it’s a fair assumption it was either Laura or the murderer. Either way, it could be an important clue. I could tell you what Blake thinks, but won’t bore you with that bit of nonsense. “
The boss nodded and returned to his close study of the writing. After a moment, he said, “I’m not so sure that’s really a T.”
I walked around behind his desk and took a gander. Looking at it more carefully, I could see what he meant. Between the downstroke of the T and the crossbar was a fair-sized gap.
G O S T
“It is a strange looking T,” I agreed. “But whoever wrote it — and the cops figure it had to be either Laura or the killer — could have been in a hurry, plus it’s not easy writing on skin. I’ve tried it and the letters can get all distorted.”
“Perhaps,” Regan mumbled and continued to study the paper under the light another few seconds. He finally slid it back to me across the desk. “It was Halloween night: ghost misspelled?” He shook his head gloomily. “I doubt it. I just don’t know,” he sighed.
“Well, join the club,” I said, shoving the paper to one side. “We’re all trapped in a slough of nescience. “
Regan looked at me and slowly shook his head. He can’t stand to hear other people use three-dollar words.
“Well. Let’s attack our nescience, then.” He smiled evilly. “By the way, are you sure you don’t mean miasma of nescience?”
He was being sarcastic, but the joke was on him. By tomorrow, with the help of that big dictionary, miasma would be a working part of my vocabulary. It’s only a matter of time before I’ll be up with him. We’ll see what good that 220 I.Q. does him then.
Regan switched off the lamp and pushed himself away from the desk. “Let me think about those letters overnight. Maybe something will come to me. Or you. In the meantime, we — that is, you — must compile a list of Miss Penniston’s known associates and begin winnowing it down to those few, we may hope, who seem to have the requisite combination of motive, ability and opportunity.
“What we now know is this: she was a talented businesswoman, utilizing natural beauty and grace, no doubt, to build a highly suc
cessful business. So we may take it as a given that she was an astute woman, a woman of substance. And at some point — if my hypothesis is correct — she incurred the enmity of someone physically powerful and extremely devious.
“That person plotted her death — again, ex hypothesi — in a long-headed and calculated manner. Are any of her associates capable of that? If so, which ones? Who had an animus toward her? Or a pecuniary motive?”
I thought about it. “Well, if you’re right, we’re certainly a jump ahead of Kessler.”
Regan sat buried in thought for a long minute. “What’s on your calendar for tomorrow?” he finally asked.
I shook my head. “Up to you. I have no plans.”
“Good. My recommendation is that you proceed to the offices of Penniston Associates. Learn all you can about her colleagues. And any personal friends you can uncover.
“Until we know more about the people who knew her, we will be unable to test my hypothesis. And keep an eye out for any sign of GOST.” He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them again he changed the subject.
“For now, David, please phone Mrs. Fanning. Tell her we are persuaded of her husband’s innocence, that we will be working to free him and appreciate her help. Tell her I will be joining my prayers to hers for his speedy release. Ask her to tell her husband that. He will know we have verified his story. You might also tell Mrs. Fanning that she has a very engaging child. Very engaging. A delightful boy.”
He spun and rolled away, trying not to let me see him blush. Too late.
18
Next morning, Monday, a little before nine, while looking up Penniston Associates in the phone book I got a better idea. Tapping out another of the numbers I know by heart, I considered just how frank I should be with my golfing buddy, Chet Rozanski.
If I handled him right, I’d be able to weasel out of him not only the phone number I needed but also some background on the whole situation. I got lucky and caught him still at home. Of course, the way he answered the phone was atrocious, but that’s just Chet.
“Yeah, Rozanski.”
“Yeah, Rozanski? What the hell kind of way is that to answer a phone? This is Yeah, Goldman.”
A pause. Then a change of gears. “Well, well, well. My old friend, Goldman, a no-show at the big Halloween bash. Are we still speaking to our fellow golfers, or have we gone way uptown?”
“Give me a break, Chet. Wasn’t my idea. Want some free advice? If a genius ever offers you a job, run like a rabbit. They’re an S.O.B. to work for.”
“So quit already, Davey! But you’ll never do that, you like those Catholics too much. Scheduled your baptism yet?”
Rozanski has yet to get over me — Jewish atheist that I am, and loudmouthed about it yet — working for a Catholic bishop. But I was in a hurry.
“Enough with the ethnic humor, Chet. I’m calling, believe it or not, for a reason. Tell me everything you know about Penniston Associates, Inc. And the real story on all those business associates, friends and acquaintances in those superb stories you wrote about the Strangler’s third hit.”
Another pause. Then, in a guarded tone, “So. Isn’t that interesting? I don’t suppose you’d have a client, would you, Davey? Perchance one with initials G. F.?”
I grinned. “You got it, friend. So let me hear all about the late Miss Penniston’s nearest and dearest.”
“Yeah, in a minute. First of all, you’re smart enough to know when to say background only. And I didn’t hear that. So am I to assume your representing Fanning is public knowledge? Like in my story in this afternoon’s Dispatch?”
“Absolutely. And, for what it’s worth, you’ve got an exclusive. Now. Give about the lady’s friends and associates.”
That started a wrangle I should have anticipated. Naturally he wanted details on my involvement with Fanning, seeing a fresh aspect on a still hot story. And since he was a reporter, my request could wait. I finally cut him off.
“Hey, man, whose dime do you think we’re talking on? In the famous words of a former president, I paid for this mike! So that hot story — your gratitude for which I will not hold my breath waiting for — is going to have to wait till I have my information. Otherwise I’m hanging up.”
He grumbled a bit, muttered an insincere thank you, and gave me what I called for. Not that his heart was in it. He was obviously thinking about his new lead for that afternoon’s Dispatch. So I didn’t get much. But since it was tons more than the dribbles and drabbles I had, I took it all down.
The number-one man in Penniston’s life had received a lot of play in the papers, and Rozanski gave me some dirt to go with it. Bob Theodore, partner in the successful accounting firm his dad had established back in the seventies, was tall, blond, handsome…
“…and dumb as a post,” chuckled Rozanski. “We didn’t put that part in our stories. Paul Malone of the Times told me Theodore asked him what obsequies meant. Can you believe it? A partner in a substantial accounting firm, and doesn’t know the meaning of a common word like that! Ah, the advantages of having a rich daddy!”
“Yeah, ridiculous,” I muttered, trying to remember what obsequies meant. I made a mental note to look it up.
Irrespective of his lack of intelligence — or who knows? Maybe because of it — Laura had liked Bob Theodore plenty. They’d been a hot item for a couple of years, cutting a wide swath in society circles, unquestionably the most photogenic couple in town since Ivana Trump dumped the Donald — or was it the other way around?
Following Laura’s death, the Post had run several photos of the couple in happier times: cutting a rug at the Muscular Dystrophy Ball at the Waldorf, Laura’s blond hair and full-length gown swirling as the tuxedoed Bob Theodore spun her, his own blond coif stylishly long.
And again, the two blondies, identical smiles splitting their gorgeous faces, toasting George Burns at the Christians and Jews United benefit.
Betty Donovan was the other side of the coin. As ugly as Theodore was handsome, she was Penniston’s business partner and, by all accounts, a very astute lady. While Rozanski described her, I was studying Donovan’s photo in a two-week-old Dispatch.
The woman’s round face didn’t really have a double chin — the skin was too tight for that. Her age was difficult to guess, as it so often is with people that fat. But I didn’t have to guess. Rozanski told me Betty Donovan was fifty-five. The only lines on her face, in fact, were her most attractive feature: laugh lines alongside both eyes. They gave her face a warmth that made up for the overall plainness.
“She’d been Penniston’s financial adviser,” said Rozanski, “almost from the time Penniston came here from Kansas eight years ago. Three years ago they decided to go into business together — combine Laura’s charisma with Donovan’s business acumen — and it’s been a huge success. People say Powers, DT& L, and the other biggies are starting to look over their shoulders. I have it on good authority that Penniston did nearly three million in billings last year, and that they’re very profitable.
“Laura was point man for the outfit, Donovan the brains. You never saw anything about Betty Donovan in their press releases, but she made the whole thing work. Some speculate that Donovan was miffed about playing second fiddle. Not so. Donovan’s a private person, hates the limelight.”
Next on Rozanski’s list was George McClendon, the new kid on the block, a would-be new partner in the enterprise. He hadn’t got much play in the newspaper coverage, even in the Dispatch, but Rozanski had some facts and figures.
“I didn’t even put McClendon in my articles, and neither did anyone else. He didn’t really fit in, and we had too many other points of interest to cover. He was strictly a Johnny-come-lately in the Penniston ménage. He’d been introduced to Donovan and Penniston by their banker, Lee Stubbs. Stubbs, by the way, is an exec at Mid-City National, where Laura and Betty banked. He was another one who got little or no press coverage following the lady’s death.
“Stubbs was their main financial sup
port when the two gals got started, three years ago. He provided the loan they desperately needed at the time. I haven’t met Stubbs, don’t even know what he looks like. I did meet McClendon, though. Now there’s a memorable dude. Must be about fifty, looks like a lumberjack — big and burly, with a bushy beard.
“Anyway, word is, Penniston and Donovan went to Stubbs last summer to ask for an increase in their line of credit. Victims of their own success, I guess. Their business was growing so fast they were running out of cash. Stubbs apparently didn’t want to go any further with them, told them they ought to put in more equity. But where the hell are a couple of gals going to come up with equity? I mean, they’re making some significant bucks, but they’ve got taxes to pay and plenty of expenses. They had no excess cash to stick into the business.
“So Stubbs put them in touch with his buddy McClendon. He’d been running a successful advertising agency, had lots of bucks and a yen to be in a sexier business, and was attracted by Penniston’s beauty and her company’s success. So he was interested. Word on the street is he was all but in the door when Penniston was killed. Now I hear he’s dickering with Donovan to buy the whole shebang.”
I thought of something. “Who inherited Laura’s share of the business? What do you know about that?”
Rozanski’s voice changed. “Hey, you’re getting into motivation. Wasting your time, buddy. You’re never going to catch a psycho by studying motivation. And if you’re thinking copycat, you’d better see my column of last week.”
“Don’t need to, Chet. Read it and respected it. But my guy, Fanning, is playing a very tough hand. Just answer my question, okay?”
“Okay, whatever you want. Yeah, I can tell you who inherited. Her parents back in Wichita, Kansas. That’s where they took the body for burial, by the way.
“See, one hundred percent of the shares of Penniston Associates were in trust, with Laura and Betty the sole beneficiaries — Laura two-thirds, Donovan one-third. The trust agreement provided the trust would stay in existence till the deaths of both. If just one died, her heirs would take over as joint beneficiaries at the same percentage. So Laura’s parents are now in effect co-owners at sixty-seven percent, along with Betty Donovan, still at thirty-three.”
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 10