She turned until their eyes met. “Has anyone come after you?”
“No,” he admitted. “And that kind of surprises me, too.”
“Maybe they’ll soon figure out their mistake, and when they do, it will take some of the pressure off me.”
“That’s a nice thought,” he mused.
“Shut it down,” she suggested, “Lane’s coming back and he doesn’t look happy.”
“You got some news, big boy?” Garner asked.
“Yeah,” the cop grimly replied, “the nun can alibi Joe for the night Elrod was murdered and I can alibi him for the murder that was committed either last night or early this morning in a home in Oak Park. You two want to join me to look at another man who died exactly the same way as Elrod and Saunders?”
“I’ve got nothing better to do,” Garner noted, “and if we’re with you we are likely safer than we are alone.”
“What do you mean by that?” Lane demanded.
Before the investigator could explain, Tiffany cut in, “I think he’s worried about Delono having a hit out on him.”
The cop grinned, “Maybe the safest place for you, Bret, is in jail. I could arrange that.”
“I’ll just depend upon you to protect me,” he quickly answered. “If I am by your side, I feel safe.”
“By the way,” the cop sternly demanded, “do you have an alibi for the times the second and third murder were committed?”
“Do I need one?”
The cop grumbled, “Now that Joe’s off the hook, you’ve once more emerged as the best guy I could hang this on. I’ll be looking for your fingerprints at the scene. If they are there, you’ll get a free ride downtown.”
“What’s the address?” Garner asked.
“1323 Ridgeland Avenue, you ever been there?”
The private investigator smiled. “Sounds familiar. I once dated a redhead in Oak Park, wonder if that could be her place?”
“Are you serious?” the reporter demanded.
Garner grinned. “I guess we’ll see. Besides, if it gets any colder outside, sitting under a bright light being grilled for a few hours might be good thing.”
“I can make it happen,” Lane bragged.
“I’m sure you can,” the other man shot back.
Tiffany shook her head. Did Lane actually want his old friend in a safer place or did he have something to tie the former Marine to the crimes? Was that the reason the cop was keeping the investigator close? No matter how this thing played out, this was going to be a very interesting day.
28
Sunday, December 22, 1946
10:17 A.M.
Though Tiffany trailed both of her companions into the small, brick home where the latest victim had lived and died, she immediately spotted the obvious anomaly in this murder. While the dead man was sitting in a chair, his head leaning forward and resting on a desk, and though he did have a red-handled knife sticking in his back, his wardrobe framed things in a much different light. This victim was wearing a Santa costume. To her recollection this was the first time she’d ever seen a dead St. Nick, and even though she was no longer a child, it was a bit unsettling.
“Well, how about that?” Lane noted, irony dripping from his lips.
Garner nodded and frowned, “I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if his name is Kelly.”
“You mean like the famous clown?” the cop asked.
“Yeah,” the investigator replied, “just like the clown. But my reasons for thinking that have nothing to do with P. T. Barnum.”
A short, wide uniformed policeman, his three chins held up by his tightly buttoned shirt collar, stood beside the body. Lane sized him up for a moment before posing an obvious question. “You got an I.D. on this guy?”
“Yes sir,” came the quick response, “his name is Royal Ogden. At least I think it is.”
The homicide cop frowned, “What do you mean you think it is?”
“Well,” the beat policeman answered, “Royal Ogden lives here, and the man’s billfold contained information stating that he was Royal Ogden, but the paper in his pocket, the permit for him playing Santa, gives his name as George Kelly.”
Lane snapped his head back toward Garner. “How could you have known that?” He paused and then added, “Unless . . .”
“Unless I killed him?” the investigator finished the thought.
“Yeah,” the lieutenant shot back. “Let’s see you dance around this one.”
“Why, Lane,” Garner chuckled, “in all our years in the Pacific you never once asked me to dance. Shall I lead or you?”
“Quit wisecracking and give me the answer, or I really will be slapping the cuffs on you.”
Tiffany smiled as Lane set his jaw in place and stuck his chest forward. He was playing the tough cop to the hilt and it was having no effect on Garner. That had to be frustrating. As Lane continued his bulldog impersonation, the bemused investigator relaxed his shoulders, stuffed his hands into his coat pocket, and grinned.
“Lane, someday you’re going to have an ulcer. You’ve got to learn to relax. Now, on three, let’s take a few deep breaths and think pleasant thoughts.”
“You’re dodging the question,” the cop barked.
Garner pulled his hands from his pockets and crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, in truth, the explanation is rather easy. Here’s the story. It took me just a couple of hours of sniffing around to discover a good portion of the Santas working in this town are carrying papers with the name George Kelly. I met four of them yesterday.”
“What?” Lane demanded. “That’s the dumbest story I’ve ever heard. You can’t expect me to believe that.”
Tiffany stepped forward. “Lane, it might sound a bit far-fetched, but it’s true. You remember the Santa scam I’ve been looking into? Well, Bret has been helping me. A lot of the guys in the red suits are carrying legal permits with the same names. It seems the cops just check the permit and not the name written on it.”
“Oh,” Lane noted, as he turned back to look at the dead man. He seemed to contemplate what he’d just been told before asking, “So, do you now think that Mr. Ogden’s death, as well as the other two, are tied to your Santa scam?”
The reporter stepped by the lead cop and walked over to the body still sitting in a ladder-back chair. There was very little blood around the place the knife entered the man, so that likely meant that, like the other two victims, he’d been stabbed after his death. An empty cup of coffee was just to the right of where Ogden’s head lay on the table. She was betting there was a knockout drug in the drink. Beside the cup were the man’s Santa hat, beard, and wig. A dented fruitcake tin was resting on the floor about a foot from the man’s right foot.
“Well, Sherlock?” Lane quipped.
Tiffany looked back toward the cop. “I don’t think this murder has anything to do with the Santa scam, but I will bet you dollars to donuts that there is a connection between this man, Saunders, and Elrod.”
Lane snapped his fingers, looked back toward the uniformed officer and barked, “Who was this guy? What did he do?”
The cop, as if he’d been waiting for that question, eagerly stepped forward, yanked a pad from his pocket, and began to read from his notes. “Mr. Ogden was sixty-six and according to neighbors he used to own a gun shop on Marshall Street. He retired about three years ago. He never married and had no children. He lived alone.”
“Tell me,” the homicide lieutenant quizzed, “how this man could be connected to Elrod and Saunders? After all, we have not yet found any link between those two.”
“Are you asking me?” the beat cop asked.
“What’s your name?” Lane demanded.
“Bowen.”
“No, Bowen, I was not asking you. I was directing my question to the member of the media and the shamus who has attached himself to that woman.”
Tiffany shook her head. “So now I’m ‘that woman.’ I don’t even rate a name.”
“Where’s the link
?” Lane barked.
“I don’t know,” the reporter snapped, “but if you give me the time, I’ll likely find it before the men in blue do.”
“And,” Lane cracked, “if you do I’ll buy you a meal at the best restaurant in town.”
“How about second best?” Garner chimed in, “You see, I’ve already taken her to the best.”
Tiffany ignored the investigator’s dig and the way the cop rolled his eyes as she shot back, “Listen, Skipper. I’m going to catch a cab and go back to the paper to do some digging. Call me there if you turn up anything new.”
“And, Skipper,” Garner added with a smile, “unless you want to arrest me, I think I’ll be leaving, too. There is an angle I’d like to explore on this case as well.”
“You’re not leaving unless you tell me what it is.” Lane warned.
The investigator nodded, “I’m looking at the obvious one. This guy ran a gun shop, Saunders was a cop who carried a gun, Delono was a man whose business needed guns, and Elrod was a district attorney whose was trying to take the crime boss down. To me that seems to be the best connection we have uncovered yet.”
“That’s not bad,” Lane admitted as he turned his gaze to the body. “In fact, that’s the first thing that has made sense in this whole mess. Wait until the crime scene guys arrive. As soon as I turn things over to them, I’ll work with you on that one.”
“Fine with me,” Garner agreed. “That should give me access to information that will save us some time.”
For a second, Tiffany almost begged off her research to join the men. She figured it would be fun to watch them bicker as they hunted through police files and chased down potential informants, but her gut told her that her angle would bear better fruit. Crossing over to the phone, she dialed the City Taxi Service, set up a cab ride, and then wandered out to the street to wait for the yellow car.
29
Sunday, December 22, 1946
3:00 P.M.
Three hours of digging through files brought Tiffany Clayton no closer to her quest in connecting the three dead men to one another. Records and news stories indicated they had never even shared a moment in the same room, much less met. She was about to give up when she came up with another angle. What was the story behind the fruitcake?
Sitting in the musty room, the reporter pulled old issues of The Chicago Star going back to the 1920s. She found only two references to Jan’s Old World Fruitcakes. The fruitcake was first mentioned in connection with the closing of a candy factory. The other time the holiday dessert found its way into print was when the equipment and products of that factory were sold at auction. It seems that among hard candy, candy canes, and chocolate-covered peanuts were one hundred and seventeen tins of Jan’s Old World Fruitcake. While reading that story, she was broadsided in discovering that Jan was not a woman, but rather a Polish immigrant whose last name was Lewandowski.
As there was no record of who had purchased the fruitcakes at the auction or even if they had been sold, Tiffany shifted her research to the man who had owned and then lost the shop. For the first time, her digging hit a bit of buried treasure. The maker of Jan’s Old World Fruitcake had been convicted of the murder of a local grocer.
In some places, news like that would have been shocking. Murder of any kind had that effect in small towns, but not in a large city. Several times a year business owners developed rivalries that led to assaults and, in some cases, murder. Thus, the fact that Jan Lewandowski had been found guilty of murdering Geno Lombardi barely registered on the reporter’s subconscious. Rather than see it as sad or scandalous, she latched onto the news as if it were a lifesaver tossed to a drowning woman.
No matter how dated or bizarre, this was the very first concrete lead she had. Perhaps the trio of current murders were tied to events of two decades before. Her excitement grew even greater when she discovered that Jan’s Old World Fruitcakes being removed from the showroom window had caused the men’s dispute and that the instrument of murder was a red-handled kitchen knife. Grabbing a cup of coffee, she pulled down several months of newspapers and dug deeper.
The scribes of that time described Lewandowski as a quiet, humble man who deeply loved his family. Never once, until that night on December 23, 1926, had he stepped outside the law. Though he claimed his innocence from the moment he was arrested until he was led into the execution chamber, the evidence against him was much too strong for a jury to dismiss. He’d been found with the murder weapon in his hands and he couldn’t produce the witness he claimed could confirm he’d only come into the store after a large man with a scar exited. Thus, from the get-go, the candy maker had the whole legal deck stacked against him. He was a lone man fighting the entire Chicago legal machine.
The trial began on February 1, 1927, and the jury reached a decision just three days later. Lewandowski’s court-appointed attorney, Raymond Johnson, called three witnesses in an attempt to use the man’s outstanding character as a defense. Yet, the words of a priest, a neighbor, and an employee of the candy factory did little to blunt the testimony of the cop who discovered Lewandowski with the murder weapon in his hand. That one witness was Henry Saunders. She didn’t know if the guys were finding anything, but Tiffany sensed she was on a roll. Uncovering this small sliver of news suddenly made the world a much brighter place.
As she leaned back in the wooden library chair to consider what she’d just learned, the reporter grimly nodded. Now she knew that the man who died in the Stockyards Hotel was the policeman who fingered Jan Lewandowski as a killer. If the candy maker had been innocent, the symbolism of the current murder weapon and even the knife in the back made sense. But why kill Ogden and Elrod? There was no mention of them in the main news stories. Where and how did the other two men tie in?
Spurred on by the finding of one nugget, the reporter spent another forty-five minutes mining every detail on the case written in everything from the trial coverage to police reports to sidebar features, but again she found no mention of Elrod or Ogden. Discouraged, she was about to close the final folder and put it back into the files when she noted a short story on Lewandowski’s family. The accompanying photo showed an elderly woman—the candy maker’s mother—with her arms wrapped around a teenage boy and a small girl. This one image caught on film put a very human stamp on what had been, up until now, just another research project into an era she’d never known. Suddenly Jan Lewandowski was more than just a convicted murderer: he was a son and a father and the thoughts of those the man left behind hit the reporter harder than a Joe Louis right. She wasn’t going to leave this tale alone, but it wasn’t going to leave her alone either. This was a tragic story of pain, loss, and suffering.
Scanning the human-interest feature that accompanied the photo of the family, Tiffany picked up on something that caused her blood to run as cold as a lakefront winter wind. The sixteen-year-old son was described as crazy and irrational. He’d even been kicked out of school for threatening his classmates and attacking a teacher. According to neighbors, Szymon often screamed at them and gave anyone who came near the family’s home menacing looks.
Tiffany pulled her eyes from the copy and back to the photo. Could the boy have been the real killer? Did anyone consider that back then? As she thought about a father who might just have died for his son, she was struck by another even darker chord. What if Szymon was the man behind the current murders? She had no choice; this was something she couldn’t let slide. She had to find out what had happened to the son and where he was now.
Tiffany rushed back to the newspaper’s file index in an attempt to uncover the fate of the old woman and Jan Lewandowski’s children. Though she dug through a half a dozen files and hundreds of pages of newsprint, all she found was a short obituary on Petra Lewandowski. The candy maker’s mother had died of a heart attack in 1929. There was no mention in the short story of what happened to Szymon or Alicija. With no place left to search at The Star, it was time to pick up the phone and dial her contacts at the o
ther newspapers.
A half a dozen calls produced an equal number of dead ends and it was in frustration the reporter went back to rereading stories on the final days of the trial. That led to something she’d missed earlier. Buried on page three was a feature piece on Lewandowski’s execution that actually documented the man’s last day moment by moment. This final chapter in the candy maker’s life was penned on March 29, 1927, and each of the times he was quoted, the convicted murderer still proclaimed his innocence. In his last statement before the state turned on the electric charge that would end his life, Lewandowski shared his love for his family and his faith in the Lord. It seemed those would be his final words, but right before the executioner slipped the hood over his head he yelled out, “The truth will set us free and a little child will lead them to the truth.”
Tiffany drummed her fingers on the table as she contemplated the last line in the story. The reference to truth was out of the book of John. She had memorized it as a child during vacation Bible school. Perhaps because of fear or fatigue, Lewandowski had misquoted it slightly. He should have said, “Then you will know the truth and the truth will set you free.” In using this final statement, was the innocent man trying to leave a clue as to who the real killer might be or at least a way of identifying him?
“You need anything, Miss Clayton?”
Pulled from her thoughts of a story almost as old as she was, Tiffany looked toward the custodian of The Chicago Star’s records room or, as it was most often called, the morgue. In his seventies, dressed in gray slacks, a white shirt and striped tie, white-haired Oscar Taylor was a cheery man about five-foot seven. A generation before, he had been a top-flight reporter. When he got too old for that job, he was shifted over to the newspaper’s morgue. Either unwilling or unable to retire, he kept plugging away. Though he hadn’t written a line in five years, the woman still thought Taylor was the heart and soul of The Star.
“Oscar,” Tiffany asked, “what can you tell me about the line, ‘A little child will lead them to the truth?’”
The Fruitcake Murders Page 17