Hog Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  The morning mail brought a letter from Ricky, from his father’s house in Monrovia. They’d gone hiking. Diedre thought it was wonderful that Ricky would have a background in two kinds of cultures; maybe he could be a diplomat or something when he grew up.

  Diedre put the letter back in the envelope. She remembered to make a mental note to ask everyone at the party if they collected stamps.

  Tuesday brought a minor triumph to Inspector Fleisher. With the written and oral consent, and the personal presence of Buell Tatham, and with political manipulations that went as far as Washington, D.C., the inspector had finally persuaded the United States Postal Service, Sparta, New York, division, to intercept the reporter’s mail. The result of all this effort was to put the latest letter in his hands two hours earlier than it would have been otherwise.

  Buell made the mistake of pointing this out.

  “Never mind that stuff,” the inspector snarled. “Every second might count, for crysake.”

  The envelope looked identical to all the others, with the exception of the date on the postmark. But inside, there were several differences. For one thing, Benedetti had been right. The envelope did indeed contain a sheet of Restover Inn letterhead.

  Another difference was there was no message. Or rather, no written message. There was the familiar signature: “—HOG”; but above that there was just an irregular brownish stain that the lab later identified as the blood of ex-Deputy Sheriff Jeffrey Jastrow.

  Everyone seemed to get the message just fine.

  When Mrs. Goralsky summoned Ron to the outer office, he emerged to find a rather irritated man with a taxi-driver’s cap holding the eminent Professor Benedetti by the elbow.

  “Amico,” the old man began.

  “You Gentry?” the cabbie snapped.

  Ron toyed with the idea of denying it, but finally said he was.

  “You gonna pay this fare?” the driver demanded.

  Ron sighed. He asked how much, dug out his wallet, and paid the man, who walked out grumbling.

  The professor shook his head. “Disgraceful,” he said solemnly. “I am a visitor to this country. If taxi drivers do not wish to accept Brazilian cruzeiros, they should make it clear at the outset.” He brushed the traces of the cabbie’s essence from his tweeds.

  “So, Ronald, have you had a pleasant morning? Have there been any developments?”

  Ron, who had been on the phone with Shaughnessy, told him of the developments. The professor grunted, and said, “Well, then, let us pick up Dr. Higgins and get about our own work, shall we?”

  Herbie Frank was pleased. His visitors today were more than just the dumb flatfoots who had been bothering him, getting in the way of his work. This was Professor Benedetti, whose picture was in the newspapers. The famous man had more sense than to try to pretend he suspected Herbie of being Hog, asking him sick questions about what he did when he thought about poor Leslie. It made him mad. Not that he couldn’t fool the police if he wanted, they were dumb enough; but still.

  But Benedetti was smart. He asked Herbie for his help on the case, he knew Herbie had a lot of ideas.

  He liked the lady, too, this Dr. Higgins. She smiled at him; it was a nice smile. She understood the way things were in life, too. Like how sometimes a very intelligent person can have only a “C” average because the stupid professors don’t understand what he’s trying to say, or because they’re jealous.

  Even the young blond guy, who was obviously only some kind of chauffeur, seemed to be okay. When Herbie told him where he worked summers, the guy didn’t make any cracks about him being strong enough to do it Herbie got tired of having to explain he was there as a clerk.

  The professor wanted to know if he could smoke. Herbie told him sure, although he didn’t usually allow smoking in his apartment. He got the professor a Dixie cup to put his ashes in.

  “Now, Mr. Frank,” the old man said. “My colleagues and I are extremely interested in your opinion of the case.”

  “Yes, sir,” Herbie said. “Well, since I knew Leslie pretty well—she kind of looked up to me, if you know what I mean—I’ve been very interested in the case. I’m working on a program on it, for the computer. I figure if Hog strikes only three more times, I’ll have enough data to work it out.”

  The professor smiled at him. “I had hoped to have the benefit of your thinking before Hog struck again.”

  “Oh, of course, naturally. But you have to realize that however logical my mind has become, from working with the machine, you know, I can’t be mathematical and certain. I can only give you, you know, ideas.”

  “I understand perfectly,” the old man said. “At this point in the investigation, even ideas would help.”

  Reassured, Herbie went on. “Now, I think that even though Hog is—excuse me, Dr. Higgins—in plain English, crazy, he doesn’t think he’s crazy. I think he thinks he’s doing it for a reason.

  “Now, you look at all the victims, and what do we find? That the odds that Hog could have a reason to kill all those different people are, you know, infinitesimal. I could show you a formula I worked out ...”

  Herbie was pleased to see they trusted him enough to take his word for it without seeing the formula. “So,” he said, “Hog must have a reason for killing only one of his victims, and he did the rest as, you know, a smoke screen.”

  They were all looking intently at him, hanging on his every word. Herbie started to toy with the idea of doing a law enforcement program for his doctorate.

  The professor said, “That’s certainly a possibility we are considering. Have you considered the matter further?”

  Herbie nodded enthusiastically. “Uh huh. Now, look at the victims again, this time looking for an anomaly, you know, something different. That’s how my program’s going to work. And what do we find this time?

  “Of all Hog’s victims, poor Leslie Bickell was the only one who was rich. Hog thought he could gain from her death.”

  “But nobody gained anything from her death.” It was the blond guy. He was a little slow to catch on.

  “Of course not,” Herbie explained patiently. “He’s crazy remember? He got all mixed up. He thought he could gain by her death, but, he realized, it was too late. That’s why he dropped out of sight, and he only comes back to, you know, kill somebody else to try and cover up.”

  “Aha,” the old man said. “Then you believe Terry Wilbur is the killer.”

  “It seems obvious to me,” Herbie stated flatly. “Naturally, though,” he went on, “I knew him and saw and heard him a lot, and you didn’t; you’ll have to take my word for some things. He’s ... well ... he’s sick! I can prove it on the machine!”

  Dr. Higgins asked him, “How did he show it?” The professor murmured, “Well worded.”

  Herbie said, “He did crazy things. He treated Leslie rotten—no respect, you know?”

  “What exactly did he do to her, though?” the lady asked.

  Herbie rubbed his face. “Oh, well, darn it.” He fidgeted in his seat. “Well, he whistled.”

  “Whistled?” the blond guy echoed.

  “Yeah!” Herbie said. “When he came to see Leslie, going up the stairs, he’d always be whistling, like a happy little bird, or something. Sometimes he’d sing, things like ‘Tonight’s the Night’ or some other dirty thing like that.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah, his stupid keys. He always came up the stairs jingling his keys, you know? Like to tell the world he could get into Leslie when—I mean into her apartment—whenever he wanted. Rubbing it in that they—that they—”

  “Had intercourse?”

  Herbie relaxed. Trust the professional to have the right way to put it. “Yeah, he had to brag that they had intercourse. You should have heard him run up those steps that night. Then he had the nerve to call her a whore! I get mad just thinking about it!”

  “So,” the professor asked quietly, “you think we should concentrate on finding Terry Wilbur?”

 
Herbie was too worked up to speak, he could only nod.

  “Then I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Frank,” the old man said as he rose, “that I agree with you wholeheartedly. I thank you for your time and assistance.”

  “And,” Dr. Higgins said, “if you—uh—if you have any further ideas about the case, call me about it, all right?” She gave him her card.

  Herbie smiled so wide he hurt his face. He knew they were smart!

  Outside, Ron let go a long low whistle that showed in the cold air like a smokey dagger. He looked at Janet. “How does it feel to meet your own psychological profile?” he asked. “It must feel like you created him, for God’s sake. Is that why you gave him your card?”

  There was a firm line to Janet’s jaw, and a firm professional glint in her eye. “That boy is desperately in need of help.”

  “I’ll say. He doesn’t even concede the possibility that a guy could whistle or sing or run or jingle keys because he might be happy to see his girl. If you don’t skulk around about it, you’re a pervert.”

  “That’s exactly why he needs help!” the psychologist said.

  “Well,” Ron said, “if, as a noted psychologist’s report seems to imply, Herbie Frank is the Hog, then nobody is going to be able to help him. And even if he isn’t, and you just pat him on the head once, he’s going to fall in love with you! And if you try to cut him loose, he might still be dangerous!”

  “Oh?” Dr. Higgins said. “And where did you take your Ph.D., Dr. Gentry?”

  “Ha, ha,” Ron said. “Just don’t go playing cozy with someone who just might be a mass-killer, all right? As a favor to me?”

  Dr. Higgins was still in control for the argument, but Ron’s last sentence rang a tiny bell in the Janet part of her personality.

  “You have to admit,” Ron went on, “he fits your profile that you were so hot on yesterday morning.”

  “I am a professional!” she snapped. “I know what I am doing!”

  “But he fits in, along with everybody else. You heard what he used to do summers!”

  “He worked in a foundry!” Suddenly, she brought herself up short. “What everybody else? What are you talking about?”

  Before Ron could answer, Professor Benedetti’s voice, laden with disdain, ended the argument. “Very entertaining,” he said. “And if my lifework were the study of human folly rather than that of evil, it would even be instructional. But we have work to do, eh?

  “Va bene. Then I will settle this immediately. First of all, Ronald, I assure you that Dr. Higgins has no intention whatever of treating that poor wretch Herbert Frank herself; and that in fact she only argued with you because she would not have you think she would refer him to a male colleague because she is afraid, and because of your appalling arbitrary attitude.

  “Secondly, I assure you both that the argument is academic. Herbert Frank is not the Hog. Despite his obvious emotional problems, he has found an outlet for himself. As long as he has access to the sterile, emotionless world of the electronic brain, he will be a danger to no one.”

  Despite what Benedetti said, Ron still wasn’t ready to send his sister to the prom with Herbie Frank. But there was no arguing the accuracy of the old man’s first observation; Janet was as red as a stop light. Ron smiled. The idea of a shrink blushing at the revelation of her innermost thoughts tickled him no end.

  “All settled?” the professor asked. “Friends again? Buonissimo. However, I’m sure the outburst of your emotions has cost you the realization of the one significant thing that young fool did have to say.”

  If any bloodstains remained on the driveway or garage at the house where little Davy Reade had been, yesterday’s blizzard had mercifully covered them. Just looking at the place brought the police photographs back to Janet’s mind. She shuddered.

  The man who opened the door looked like a western-movie star at the end of a long convalescence. There was a grayish tone to his tanned complexion, and new-looking hollows in his face. He eyed his callers suspiciously.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Mr. Reade?” The professor smiled exactly like an undertaker.

  “Yeah, that’s me. What do you want?”

  The professor had Ron produce the credentials Fleisher had given him and made the necessary introductions. When he saw that his visitors were official, John Reade’s face went slack, as though the effort of registering suspicious hostility had been a great one.

  “Well,” he said, “come in.” He led them into a room Janet recognized from police photographs. It was a lot neater now. She noticed the handmade picture frame on the mantel, and felt her throat tighten up. She made herself stop—too much sentiment was unprofessional.

  Reade said, “Anybody want a drink? No? Anybody mind if I have one?” It was a rhetorical question. The cap was already off the vodka by the time he finished asking. Reade poured his drink, vodka on ice, and said, “What can I do for you, Professor? Sorry about my attitude at the door, but you wouldn’t believe the people who have been here. Reporters, one guy wanted to ghost a book by my—by Joyce, telling what it’s like to lose a son to a maniac. I hit him. There was an old lady that was going to contact Davy in the ‘spirit’ world. And relatives. People who didn’t even come to our wedding came to little Davy’s funeral. Ghouls.” He tilted his head and drank like vodka was a soft drink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “I’m a louse. I’ve always known that. But since I’ve come back to Sparta, I’ve been thinking that I might not be so much worse than anybody else.”

  Ron said, “You came out here the day after Davy’s death, correct? From San Francisco? That would be Thursday, the twenty-ninth?”

  “Yeah. What’s the point?” Reade was gathering up the energy to become hostile again, Janet saw. He was making inferences about what the detective’s question really meant.

  Ron, however, was bland. “Just checking. Did you have to close the motorcycle shop to come out here?”

  “No, my partner is watching the business.”

  “What kind of bike do you sell?” Ron asked.

  “All kinds.”

  “Harley-Davidsons?”

  “Yeah, I’ve a got a contract with some of the police departments, I sell a lot of the bigger ones, the real ... oh, my God!”

  “What’s the matter, Mr. Reade?”

  Reade’s jaw had dropped open. He tried to cover it up with another long pull at his drink. Janet looked around to see Ron’s face grim, and a vague smile on Benedetti’s. Janet was very confused.

  The old man said, “Please, do not worry, Mr. Reade. The merest coincidence.”

  Reade looked slightly better, though he was still obviously shaken. “I—it never occurred to me.”

  The professor shrugged it off. “Perfectly understandable. Now, sir, I want to ask you some personal questions. Is that all right?”

  “What? Oh, sure, go ahead.”

  “Why did you and your wife divorce?”

  “Because I’m a louse. I told you. I screwed other women.”

  “You had an affair?”

  Reade snorted. “Not even. A bunch of one night stands I never cared a damn about. One after another, like peanuts. Joyce probably would have forgiven an affair, but she couldn’t understand the peanut women.” He lifted his glass and mumbled into it, “Neither can I.”

  “Did you make enemies doing this? Or in your business? Could someone have wanted to get back at you by killing your son?”

  Reade shook his head sadly. “No. The women were all unattached, or if they were attached, there’ve been plenty of men besides me. I didn’t even go into business until I moved West, so that’s out.

  “The only person I’ve ever given cause to hate me has been Joyce. And she doesn’t even do that.”

  “How is Mrs. Reade taking this?” the professor asked.

  “Bad,” Reade said. “I’ve got to get her to snap out of it. She’s so distant. I’m afraid to leave her alone. I’ve been sleeping on the
couch here, to keep an eye on her.”

  “How long do you plan to stay with it?” Ron asked.

  Janet thought she caught a spark of life in Reade’s eyes. “Hey,” he said. “I’m a louse, but I’m not that big a louse. As long as it takes, that’s how long I’m going to stay with it!”

  “May we talk to Mrs. Reade, please?” the professor asked.

  Reade made a face. “I wish you wouldn’t. I finally got her to try and get some sleep.”

  Benedetti was apologetic. “I understand, Mr. Reade, but if we are just seconds earlier in catching the killer, we may save a life, eh?”

  Reade nodded resignedly, saying, “I’ll go get her.” He disappeared into the back of the house.

  A few seconds later, he was shouting something.

  Janet looked at Ron. “What is he saying?” she asked.

  “Sounds like ‘Rig! Rig!’ ” he replied.

  That’s what it sounded like to Janet, too. The mystery was soon solved, however. Reade, frantic, appeared back in the living room yelling, “Dr. Higgins! Come quick!” She got up and followed.

  Janet was a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. She wasn’t a medical doctor. Still, she knew what to do when confronted with the comatose form of a woman with an empty bottle of sleeping pills in her hand. While she did it, Ron Gentry, who had followed her, called for an ambulance.

  It’s a drama with a small number of characters, played on one set, with one line of dialogue, and two possible outcomes. But when a doctor walks into the waiting room, no matter how often this particular stock piece is played, there is never anything less than one hundred percent suspense on the part of the audience. They played it this time with the happy ending—“She’s going to live,” the doctor said. Curtain.

  She would not only live, she would be fine. She had been found before any permanent mental or physical damage could be done. John Reade wept; Fleisher, who had rushed out to the hospital, went home, grumbling. Buell Tatham, and the rest of the reporters, went to file their stories.