The old man smiled, “We don’t get much call for Bible knowledge around here, so you likely came to the only one who could answer your query. It is from the Old Testament, Isaiah as I recall. It reads something like this. ‘The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and the young lion and the fatling together; and a little child shall lead them.’ You need anything else?”
“What do you remember about the Lewandowski trial?”
“Now you’re going way back,” he laughed. “And you’re lucky, too. I covered a bit of that case.”
“I’ve read all about it,” Tiffany assured him. “I read a couple of your stories. What I want to know is not what you wrote, but what you thought. I’m not looking for facts as much as I am getting a feel for your instincts.”
The man’s eyes grew small and his expression stoic. He balled his hands together as he spilled out his memories. “The evidence clearly showed me Jan Lewandowski was guilty and so my mind agreed, but my gut screamed out that the candy maker was innocent.”
“Really? Why?”
“Tiffany, logic can’t define gut feelings.” Taylor paused, licked his lips, and shook his head. “I was one of those that watched the state kill him. That’s the way reporters are—we all want to be in the death house. We trade in all our favors just to see that moment when a heart stops beating. It is the ultimate story. And yet to this day, I have nightmares about the moment when Jan Lewandowski’s heart beat for the final time. Tiffany, I’ve watched a couple of dozen men die in the chair and that was the only time I had doubts. And, boy, I had real doubts, the kind that get in your stomach and turn it into a raging sea. I couldn’t really eat or sleep for weeks. In fact, I still have nightmares about that night.” He paused and looked toward a wall as if suddenly seeing clearly an old memory. “ ‘The truth will set us free and a little child will lead them to the truth.’ Those were his last words and to this day they haunt me.” He sadly shook his head, “I’m going to take a break. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” the woman said as she watched Oscar walk off. Turning back to the newspaper resting on the table, she wondered. Was the child in those final words one of Lewandowski’s children? That was the only thing that made sense.
“The son,” she whispered to herself. That had to be it. Though innocent, Lewandowski must have been protecting his own son. She had to find those children. She had to dig up what they knew in order to tie this case together. But where could she start looking?
The reporter’s blue eyes fell back to the story. Beside the text was a photograph of Lewandowski being led to death row by a cop and a priest. The condemned man was drawn, thin, his hair almost white, and his face heavily lined. He already looked dead. The policeman walking beside the condemned was stoic . . . his face showing no emotion. Then there was the third man. The tall, thin priest likely best reflected the emotion of Jan Lewandowski’s final moments. His eyes filled with tears, the young clergyman was holding a Bible, and staring straight into the camera. The haunting and hollow look captured by the photographer clearly spelled out that this man who was there to represent faith had none at that moment. He appeared lost and hopeless. She could well imagine how he must have felt. He likely knew Lewandowski well. He’d heard his hopes and dreams and shared his prayers. And now he was going to watch him die, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Tiffany glanced from the priest to the guard and then once again to the priest. Suddenly he looked familiar. Did she know him or did he just remind her of someone? Glancing down to the cutline she read what the copy editor had written almost twenty years before.
Officer Myron Mays leads Jan Lewandowski to the chair as Father J. McBride softly offers a final prayer for the condemned.
That was it! The cloud had been lifted and suddenly everything was clear! She had the angle she needed and knew where she had to go to begin unraveling this bizarre case. The only question was if her link to a twenty-year-old story would know where she could find Szymon today.
30
Sunday, December 22, 1946
7:30 P.M.
The night was cold, but not bitter, and the cab Tiffany secured had been blessed with a good heater. Thus, the twenty-minute ride from her office to Sister Ann’s soup kitchen offered the reporter a few minutes to forget about the frigid weather and carefully go over what she knew. So she paid the cabbie and entered the charity enterprise, she was more than ready to let the cat she’d spotted in the newspaper photograph out of the bag.
A small woman, perhaps fifty, stood just inside the door, her body wrapped in a wool coat at least four sizes too large for her tiny frame. One look assured the reporter that the lady with the dark brown eyes was not a staff member, but was in the establishment for a meal and a chance to spend a few hours out of the winter air. For this person, the kitchen was a welcome refuge and maybe even a lifesaver. A quick inventory of the rest of the room revealed a few dozen other wayfarers who likely felt the same way. It was sobering to realize that with so many spending so much on things that were not really needed that this place was the final outpost for the lost, misguided, and hopeless who had nothing to spend and no hopes of getting any gifts. Christmas had a unique way of clearly displaying the ironies of life.
“Excuse me,” Tiffany asked, after returning her gaze back to the tiny woman, “is Sister Ann in?”
The fragile creature shook her head, but said nothing.
“Is Sister Ann in?” the reporter asked again, this time raising the volume a few decibels.
“She won’t answer,” a familiar voice called out from across the room. Glancing beyond the woman, Tiffany noted Joe coming her way. As he approached he explained, “Mary’s not rude, but she is deaf and mute. So while she can’t hear a kind word, she does know the meaning of a sincere touch.”
“I see,” Tiffany replied as she watched Joe gently pat Mary on the shoulder. After noting the woman’s smile, the reporter continued, “In truth, I actually came to see you. Is there a place we can talk?”
The man in black smiled and pointed across the room. “How about the table where you visited with Sister Ann?”
Tiffany nodded and when the man turned and started back to the far wall, she followed. They were both seated before she opened the conversation.
“Joe, why isn’t Sister Ann here? I mean, I figured two days before Christmas would make this a pretty big night for the kitchen.”
“This is her one evening a week off,” he explained. “Even as strong and dedicated as she is, she needs time to regroup. If you want to talk to her, she will be back tomorrow.”
Tiffany shook her head. “It really is you that I need. If she were here, I thought you might want her in on this.” She paused and looked into the man’s kind eyes. She was now sure she was right. “You see, I’ve got something figured out.”
“You are well ahead of me,” the man pronounced with a slight smile. “It has been a very long time since I have figured out much of anything. I just kind of wander around in the darkness looking for the light.”
“And you found some light here,” she suggested.
“More light,” he admitted, “than I’ve found anywhere else in a long time. Sister Ann does the kind of work the church is meant to do but often ignores. What would Mary do without this place?” He waved his hand toward the others who’d sought refuge in the kitchen and then added, “What would any of them do? Sister Ann finds the least of these and lets them know that someone actually cares.”
“And,” Tiffany added, “I think you do, too.”
“I care,” he agreed, “but I’m a man without direction or faith. I’m not anywhere near like she is. I can dish out a bowl of soup that fills their stomachs; she gives them something that they carry in their souls.”
On the ride over, Tiffany thought this would be easy. She’d simply lay out the truth and listen to the story that followed. Now it seemed much more com
plicated. She was dealing with a man who was fragile and perhaps even lost. If it hadn’t been for a need to solve three murders and perhaps stop more, she would have kept mute and let the man deal with the past in his way.
“Joe,” the reporter softly announced, her need to know pushing her to go where she now didn’t want to go. “I know why you dress in black and why your pants are patched. I know why the material is so worn that your knees are shiny.” She paused until their eyes locked. If he had a clue as to what she discovered, his expression didn’t reveal it. That made this even harder. Tiffany was struggling to find a smooth path to gently lead the damaged man where she knew he didn’t want to go. “Joe, you spend a lot of time praying, don’t you?”
“It goes along with the job,” he answered. “There are a lot of people who come in here who need to be prayed for and, if they ask, I pray with them. Ironic, I’m the one without much faith. I need it worse than anyone. So I pray a lot. The problem is that I’m not sure my prayers are heard.” His face was suddenly awash in sadness . . . a sadness, Tiffany guessed, that was born in both a memory and a defeat. She sensed it was also a sadness he probably couldn’t shake.
“How do we know if our prayers are heard?” Tiffany asked. “I mean, how do we really know?”
He shrugged, “I’m not sure. I only know about when they’re not heard. I know a lot about that. I also know a lot about when prayers are not answered.”
She nodded. It was now time to jump in with both feet. It was time to pull back the curtain on the past. “Joe, do you still pray for Jan Lewandowski?”
“I’m not sure I follow you,” the man quickly replied, his words not fully masking the recognition she saw in his eyes.
Tiffany didn’t let the denial throw her offtrack. She looked his way and smiled sadly. “I don’t know when you quit what you no doubt felt was your calling, but I do know that about twenty years ago you were a priest named Joseph McBride. I have no doubt that the clothes you wear today were once a part of your official garb.”
“What makes you think that?” he quietly asked. He was still running from what she knew was the truth.
She shrugged, “I’ve noticed a lot of priests whose pants have shiny knees.”
“So do men who scrub floors,” he suggested.
Tiffany reached into her purse and pulled out a file. After opening it, she produced a photo and slid it his way. She waited for Joe to study what had been captured so long ago in black and white before asking, “Why did you leave the priesthood?”
He glanced toward the street, licked his lips, and frowned. She could tell, even when she’d sprung the trap, he still didn’t want to share his story. But she was just as sure that if she waited long enough he would cave to her wishes. So the clock ticked. Three minutes later, he broke his silence and proved her instincts correct.
“Jan was innocent,” Joe solemnly announced without looking Tiffany’s way. “I was sure of it. And for the last six weeks of his life, I tried every avenue I could find to get the evidence to prove it. Still, I couldn’t uncover the one thing he needed. When I had exhausted everything I could humanly do, I turned to God. I just knew the Lord wouldn’t let an innocent man die. Sadly, even my prayers went unanswered. It was as if the court system and even God turned his back on poor Jan Lewandowski. It killed him and destroyed me.”
“It has happened before,” Tiffany suggested. “I mean the execution of Jesus followed that same path. An innocent man paid and a guilty man walked.”
The man turned back to the reporter and sighed. “I was with Jan until the end. I watched him die. I smelled his body burn. You don’t forget that smell. As I drove back to my room at St. John’s Church that night, I felt like a failure.”
“So you quit and walked away?” the reporter asked.
“No,” he admitted, “not then. I figured that my feelings would pass in time. So I kept at it for another decade. I said my prayers, blessed babies, heard confessions, led mass, and even assured the lost I had the map to where they needed to go. Then one day, after saying the funeral mass for a three-year-old killed by a hit-and-run driver, I just couldn’t do it anymore. So I gathered the tools of my trade, my collar, and even my Bible and left them on the steps of St. John’s and just walked away. I lived on the streets; even rode the rails for a while. In my travels, I got to see the dirty parts of America only the lost and forgotten see. I ate out of trash cans and visited with men and women who were alone. I kept looking for answers as I mingled with what the Bible calls the least of these, and I didn’t find them. What I discovered was a world where the poor were pushed aside and those weak of mind were despised and abused. Then, two years ago, still just as lost as I was when I left Chicago, I came back here. Not long after I arrived in the town where I’d grown up, I discovered this place.”
Tiffany reached across the table and tapped the photo, “Your knowledge of what happened and the fact you were so crushed by what you saw as a miscarriage of justice provides you with a pretty solid motive in this case. You need to understand that when I show this to Lieutenant Walker, he will come after you again.”
He nodded, “No doubt, but you likely realize that I also have an airtight alibi for the times the two murders happened.”
“There are three now,” she coldly chimed in.
“Three?”
“Yes,” she continued, “a man named Royal Ogden was killed in the very same way.”
“Ogden?” he asked.
“Does the name mean anything to you?” she queried.
“Yeah,” he replied grimly, “he was the one juror in the Jan Lewandowski case who held out for acquittal. That was the reason Jan’s fate wasn’t decided in just a few minutes. In fact, the jury actually went home after ten hours of fighting it out and resumed deliberating the next morning. Overnight, Ogden changed his mind and went with the others. So, just when I thought my prayers had been heard and answered, I was hit in the gut. To this day, the bruise is still there. You can’t see it, but it’s there.”
Though she hadn’t enjoyed digging into a man’s fragile mind to mine the needed information, it had proven worth it. The reporter now had a second link. Ogden was on the jury, and Saunders was the man who testified against Lewandowski. Therefore, if these murders were tied to that old trial, she had finally gained some traction.
“Joe,” she asked, “where did Elrod fit in?”
The former priest shook his head, “I’ve thought a lot about that in the last day and have come up with nothing. I mean, the fruitcake and knife pointed to evidence that was still fresh in my memory, but I still can’t come up with a connection Elrod had with the case. I was in the court on all three days of the trial and he was never there. Jan never mentioned him either.”
“What about Lewandowski’s kids?” Tiffany demanded. “What happened to them?”
He shook his head as he explained. “I only met them once during the trial and lost track of them afterward. Why do you ask?”
“I read where Szymon had mental issues,” the reporter explained.
“The result of an accident as a child,” Joe cut in. “Jan always blamed himself for that. It was something about the kid running out in front of a carriage and being kicked by a horse.”
“I have a theory that his mental health might still be a problem,” she paused before offering an additional thought. “Perhaps his mixed-up mind is causing him to now even the score.”
“He’d have to be a magician,” Joe suggested.
“What do you mean?”
The man smiled, “The fruitcakes are the problem. I was at the auction of Jan’s Candy Factory. No one bought the fruitcakes, so they were immediately taken to a vacant lot and burned. I watched it happen.”
“So,” Tiffany asked, “where did the three fruitcakes that were used as weapons come from?”
Joe looked back toward the street and suggested, “Jan left five or six for display at Lombardi’s store and no one knows what happened to them. I’m guessing tha
t perhaps the real killer took them.”
The reporter reached across the table and grabbed the priest’s arm. She squeezed it and demanded, “What else do you know that wasn’t in the papers?”
The man finally turned his face and locked his eyes onto her. “Jan said that a fat man with a deep scar on his face walked out of the grocery store that night and got into a large Cadillac driven by a younger man. That fat man carried two large sacks. Jan watched them leave before continuing his walk to his shop. The only reason he went into the grocery was because the fruitcakes he’d given the store owner to display in his window were not there. Jan wanted to know why they’d been removed. So he walked in to confront Lombardi. He thought he was alone, but then he saw a small boy hiding behind a display. The child ran out before Jan could find out who he was. Jan then saw Lombardi. He studied the dead man’s body and even pulled the knife from Lombardi’s back. That’s when Saunders walked in and Jan’s life essentially ended.”
“Why was he out that night?” Tiffany asked. “The newspaper account I read said it was bitter cold and snowing.”
“Jan told me he was going to get a sled he’d made for his daughter as a Christmas present. In fact, that’s the reason I know the fruitcakes were burned. You see I went to the auction to fulfill a promise. I bought the sled and the next Christmas Eve I secretly left it on the steps where Jan’s mother and the children lived. That way Alicija finally received the last thing her father made for her with his own hands.”
“I need to find the boy who witnessed that murder,” Tiffany announced.
“Good luck,” Joe grimly replied. “I’ve been looking for him for twenty years and have come up with nothing. Just like smoke from a fireplace, he disappeared into thin air.”
The ringing of the phone brought the man in black to his feet. He quickly covered the twenty steps to the kitchen. A minute later, he reappeared. “Miss Clayton, a Mr. Garner is on the line for you.” Joe pointed toward the counter, “The phone is right through the door.”
The Fruitcake Murders Page 18