Dropping her eyes to the papers on her lap, Christie said, “Yes sir.”
Her eyes raced over the words, then deliberately slowed down, picking out the meanings. She gnawed on her pinky absently, reading Stoney’s precise background report which took the infant Murray Rogoff home from Bellevue Hospital Maternity Ward, where he had been born on February 1, 1930, son of Hyman and Gilda (maiden name: Posner) Rogoff; weight: 8 lbs. 6 ounces; 21 inches long; other children: 1; father’s occupation: fish store owner; mother’s occupation: housewife.
Education: elementary school, where he had been an average student; junior high school, where he had been an average student, but excelled at sports. Into high school, where he had been a low-average student, but had developed into a star athlete. And then the school records stopped after he had completed his third year of high school.
The medical record picked up where the school record left off and copied verbatim from the Medical. Records-Bellevue Emergency was the following: August 2, 1946; 12:45 A.M.; Murray Rogoff; 136 Rivington Street, N.Y.C.; place of occurrence: Delancey Street, in front of Loew’s Delancey; nature of injury: patient in comatose state; possible skull fracture; witnesses to accident: David Rogoff (bro.), same address; Sol Weissman, 138 Rivington Street, N.Y.C. Notations: patient, male, white, 16 yrs., removed from scene of accident by ambulance; remains in comatose state; apparently well-nourished, good physical condition; no evidence alcohol. Patient’s brother states patient slipped while engaging in “horseplay” at location of accident. Dr. J. Gonzales-ambulance attendant; patient removed to Intensive Care Rm.—Dr. Fogel supervising.
The Aided Card: prepared by Patrolman K. Nugent, Shield #130567, officer not on scene when accident occurred, containing a terse account as stated above.
Notation: August 5, 1946—patient semi-comatose, complaining of intense headache across forehead. August 6, 1946, patient fully conscious, removed to Ward 6; taking food and medication well. X ray reveals hairline fracture, lower cranium. Patient comfortable, uncomplaining, resting well. August 12, 1946, patient complaining of severe pain in eyes; examined by Dr. J. Gold, ophthalmologist who removed several lashes from each of the patient’s eyes; patient reported to supervising physician some significant hair loss from head and pubic area; August 13, 1946, patient examined by Dr. Leonardi, neurologist, who reports no significant findings. August 18, 1946, patient considered physically fit for discharge, but noticeably disturbed by continuing hair loss. Seen this date by Dr. Loeb, psychiatrist.
Stoner’s report continued: undersigned spoke this date with Dr. Loeb who reported that all information contained in his interviews with subject was considered privileged and confidential. Then, without further notation or explanation, Stoney’s report continued, spelling out the “privileged and confidential” information he had obtained—somehow—from Dr. Loeb.
Dr. Loeb first saw subject, Murray Rogoff, on August 18, 1946, date subject was due to be discharged from hospital. He described subject, a boy of 16, as a very well-developed physical specimen, apparently in excellent health, but very agitated by the significant loss of hair he was experiencing. Dr. Loeb advised subject to leave hospital and remain on Out-Patient basis; further scheduled tests to determine cause and possible cure of said condition. It was noted that a “differential diagnosis” was recorded on subject’s medical file. [Then, in parentheses, Stoner Martin, knowing Reardon’s impatience and unwillingness to consult the Medical Dictionary, had spelled out] this means that cause of subject’s hair loss had not been determined and a series of tests was scheduled to eliminate possible causes and hopefully to arrive at a definite cause; subject continued under supervisory care of Dr. Loeb, returning to Out-Patient Department three times a, week for tests given by Neurology Department and Department of Internal Medicine.
September 1, 1946: patient fitted with special moisture glasses to protect his eyes, which are now devoid of lashes; apparent damage to tear ducts; eyes tearless, burning, dry.
Dr. Loeb noted that patient seemed more hostile and uncommunicative at each visit; very agitated and angry at inability of doctors to pinpoint cause of hair loss. Though it was explained to patient that the injury he suffered did not seem instrumental in causing this hair loss, patient feels that skull injury was motivating force. Patient bitterly disturbed by loss of status within his social group; at first visit, patient bragged considerably about his female conquests, now describes all females as “dirty, filthy.” Patient seems unable to accept what has happened to him and is building a wall of protective hostility and resentment around himself.
Patient last seen on October 15, 1946, after missing three previously scheduled appointments; physical changes in subject are evident in his carriage and uncertain manner; he wore a cap which he refused to remove; holds his head down; mumbles; patient completely hairless now; informs he has quit school; spends his time working with his father in his fish store; sleeping; “just walking around”; when queried as to his sexual activities, patient became highly agitated, used obscene language and said “that’s my business.” Patient failed to keep any subsequent appointments, though patient’s brother was seen once, on November 3, 1946. Brother reports patient is most disturbed and abusive to him, his parents and customers in the store, yet refuses to return for any counseling.
When Dr. Loeb was asked by undersigned [Stoney’s report continued] if such a patient might, at some future time, resort to acts of sexual violence, Dr. Loeb said he could not, with any accuracy, based on his knowledge of subject, make such a prediction but that the possibility could not be eliminated from any prognosis.
Christie placed the report face down on Reardon’s desk and reached for Marty’s report without looking up at Reardon.
Detective Ginsburg’s report was brief but informative: “Subject expressed no interest in female customer who entered store while undersigned was present. Undersigned engaged subject in conversation relative to types of females who are of interest to him and it is the conclusion of undersigned that subject has one particular female in mind, such conclusion being based upon subject’s saying to undersigned, ‘What I got, friend, is one of a kind. Clean and nice.’ (The word jumped out at Christie as though it were typed in capital letters.) ‘The one-man kind.’ Then subject indicated himself, saying, ‘This man.’
“It is the opinion of undersigned,” Marty’s report informed her, “that subject is not interested in the females abroad in streets of his resident neighborhood but that subject has another female in mind, and is possibly involved with this female or had some contact with her, although there is the possibility that this female is all in subject’s mind, since he is a very weird-looking person.”
Reardon spoke the moment she finished reading Marty’s report. “Marty isn’t eloquent but he is sharp. By the way,” he said slowly, “I didn’t tell Marty why or what. I just told him to go down and strike up a conversation with Rogoff and see how he feels about girls in general.” He watched her face; Christ, he could see right into her. She had been sore when he sent her out for information without telling her why. “You see,” he continued, his eyes darkening, “when you know what you’re looking for, you tend to find it. You tend to steer in that particular direction. This way, when I get a report, it’s more or less objective and unbiased: I know what I have—even if you don’t know why.” Raising his chin slightly, he said pointedly, “Not that you deserve any explanation, Opara. I just threw that in gratis.” He admired the fact that she didn’t pretend, just nodded. Her face reddened though. She had been put in her place and she sat there, defenseless, acknowledging it. There is something about this girl, Reardon thought, but not letting it show. His face could be any kind of mask he wanted it to be and he wanted nothing but professional authority to show now.
“Okay, Christie, spell it out for me. What have we got?” He leaned back, motionless in his chair, watching the hesitation. No doubt, just a careful search for the right words.
“Rogoff. We got Rogoff.”
Wordlessly, he shook his head.
“All right: not yet. But we are going to get him.” She leaned her hands on the desk and her words were defiant. “I am going to get him.”
His first impulse was to cut her down. He could, of course, with a swift change of expression, a few sharp, probing questions. But he didn’t respond to her tone, just watched her face, and a different feeling came to him now because the tense firmness and certainty with which she had spoken revealed something else. She was so goddamn vulnerable, like a little kid who sees something wrong and without hesitation or self-doubt, knowing that it must be made right, simply says: here’s what must be done and I must do it.
“How?”
She pulled in her lower lip, bit down on it, then pushed it out. “I’m not sure yet, but ...”
He cut her off rapidly. “Well, hey, I’m glad to hear that there is still at least a question of method in your mind. You’re so damn sure of everything else, it’s nice to know you do have at least a little doubt.”
“Not about Rogoff,” she shot back, “not about him.”
“All right. Let’s run over what we have. Three murdered girls: they are a fact. Raped and strangled and no witnesses, no fingerprints, no tangible evidence at the scene to link any suspect to them, right?”
“Right.”
“A murderer: unknown.” He saw her mouth begin to move, but she remained silent. “Repeat: unknown. He is a fact, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay. Now, we got Rogoff: a known degenerate. You locked him up as an exhibitionist, but he has no previous record.”
“That doesn’t mean anything—that just means it was the first time he was caught,”
His eyes searched the ceiling, his voice not containing his anger. “You going to teach me something or are we going to discuss the situation?”
“Sorry.”
“Damn it. All right. The murderer is in one way or another a sexual deviate; there have been arguments both ways relative to the progressive acts of exhibitionists: some say he turns rapist or molester, some say not. Now, we have the phone calls, which began shortly after you locked up Rogoff. You think it’s Rogoff calling ...”
“I know.”
“Will you just shut up, Opara?” Reardon stood up, walked to the couch, eased himself the length of the green leather, his head and feet propped on opposite armrests, his hand resting lightly over his eyes. “Just keep quiet, all right? Now, let’s assume that your caller is Rogoff. His calls aren’t obscene or threatening. He just asks how you are, et cetera. Assuming it’s Rogoff and assuming we could prove it’s him, what have we got?” He waited for a moment, then answered his own question, “Nothing, right?”
Grudgingly, she said, “Right, but ...”
“No buts.” He uncovered his eyes, raising his head. “Nothing. Even if the calls take a nasty turn and we bag him on an obscenity charge, that would be it, right? There’s no physical evidence, no nail scrapings, nothing from the murder scenes.” He eased himself up, so that he was resting on his elbows. “So where are we?”
The totally unexpected coldness of her voice forced him into a rigid alertness. “I think you know where we are as well as I do, Mr. Reardon.”
“No,” he said, unmoving, “you tell me.”
“We have to bait a trap,” she said, “and you are looking at the bait.” Her chin rose slightly and she seemed devoid of any emotion. “Rogoff selected me. Okay. Let’s set it up.”
He knew she had spoken with the clear, professional logic of a good police officer: yet, why was it, Reardon wondered, that every time she opened her mouth, every word hit him as some kind of a personal challenge? Controlling his voice so that he would not engage her, he asked, “What did you have in mind?”
She frowned. “I really hadn’t thought it through. Just that it seems the only way.” She held her hand up, practically into his face, and Reardon, resisting the urge to grab that hand (and do what?) jammed his fists into his pockets, standing now, half leaning against the desk before her. But she wasn’t watching him; she was digging inside her mind, recalling whatever facts she felt she had to have. “Last night, he said something he’s never said before. He—he said that he loved me.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
Her eyes did a slow stare, then a deliberate blink, dismissing his remark.
The fresh little bastard.
Ignoring his closeness, yet speaking to him, she said, “I don’t respond to anything he says.” Then altering that quickly, “I mean, I do answer, but nothing that would lead him on. That wouldn’t be right—that would be entrapment.”
Reardon nodded solemnly. “Oh, absolutely, that wouldn’t be right.” They were talking about a suspect in three rape-murders. Reardon ran his tongue over his front teeth.
“He’s been watching me somehow, so he knows ...”
“Watching you? You never said anything about that before.” The District Attorney’s voice accused the witness of withholding vital information.
Christie shook her head impatiently. “No, no, I haven’t spotted him or anything. But he has to be watching me, because he always calls just about thirty or forty minutes after I get home.” Her eyes narrowed and she was speaking more to herself than to him. “He must be somewhere around the subway station because there aren’t any phone booths near my house. He probably gives me about ten minutes to get home, then time to shower and ... et cetera.”
“Has he ever called when you weren’t there?”
“Yes, twice. Nora, my mother-in-law, answered. One night, Marty drove me home, one night Bill Ferranti dropped me off.” She snapped her fingers. “That must be it. He watches the subway station. He didn’t see me come home, so he called.”
“Did he speak to Nora?”
“Yes—asked if I were home. She just said I was out.” Reardon’s brows went up, questioningly. “Nora knows about the calls. I told her to just put him off without any further conversation. He thanked her both times and hung up, but didn’t call me back.”
Christie closed her eyes, completely unaware of him, standing there so close that the fabric of her dress, a light nylon jersey paisley print of wildly contrasting pinks and oranges, brushed against his knee as she moved, shifting in the chair. Observing the concentration, Reardon had the oddest feeling: as if they were two little kids and that any moment she would open her eyes and instruct him: “and then you must be the daddy, and when you come home from work, I’ll say ...” But her eyes snapped open and she told him, “We could use Nora. She could give him a message.”
“Like what?”
It rushed from her fully conceived. “Well, that I moved. We could stake out a place. I did some research at the library on the other murders. The one in the Village and the one in upper Manhattan. Each girl lived alone in a ground floor apartment and entry had been through a back window.”
His voice was lightly taunting. “Did you research on my time?”
Earnestly, she shook her head. “No, sir. After I did my assignment.”
“I bet. Go on, don’t let me stop you.”
“We could stake out a place. Ground floor, back window, then when he calls, Nora could tell him that I moved and give him the address and apartment number.” She seemed to have run out of breath and words at the same time.
“Yeah? Then what?”
“Then,” she said, slowed down and steadied by reality, “it would be up to him.”
Reardon, eyes on his shoes, watched his feet move from the desk, watched the shiny black leather tips stop alongside the radiator which was built into the windowsill. He raised his head, vacantly looking down to the street.
Christie didn’t break the silence, but sat waiting, suddenly certain that he was standing there, gathering ammunition, that he would whirl around now, his face set into an angry grin, his voice nasty and sharp as steel, and his words would tear everything but her knowledge into useless little pieces. But he turned around, finally, slowly, and h
is face was thoughtful.
“I’ll think about it,” he said.
That was even worse than his sarcasm because that was a way of dismissing it, that was absolutely nowhere. She wondered why he added sharply, “I didn’t say no. I said I’ll think about it. There is a matter of communication involved.”
“Communication? With who?” she demanded.
“Did you ever hear of Homicide? Or did you intend to handle this whole thing single-o?”
“Do they have to get into it?” She regretted the question before it was completed, regretted it more, as he sat, his eyes glowing at her like darts.
He flung words at her like accusations. “Homicide’s business is homicide. We’re not looking to take over anybody’s case.” Her lips moved, but he spoke too quickly for her. “Don’t say a word, Opara, don’t even open your mouth. Relax—nobody’s going to take anything away from you. If, after a conference with the other people involved in this, I decide to pursue this case along the lines we’ve discussed, you’re in it.” You’re damn right: that’s what she was saying, with her mouth set and tight and her eyes blazing back at him. Reardon’s finger jabbed the air. “But as part of a team. You got that? As part of a team!”
“Right!” She threw his word, in his tone, into his face. Reardon curled his fingers tightly; he wanted, more than anything in the world at that particular moment, to walk around the desk and grab her by her shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. Or something. He glanced, unseeing, at his watch, then snatched up some papers, his head bent down, then raised his eyes to her.
“You still here?” Blush; go ahead, damn it. Yes, I do see it; that kills you doesn’t it? He watched her hesitate at the door. “Yeah? You got something else on your mind?”
He could see the struggle and he knew she would say whatever it was even though she knew she should just keep her mouth shut and keep going.
One long deep breath drawn in and carefully released, then her voice a little thin, but with no tremor, “Mr. Reardon, whatever happens in this case,” a pause, then her words an undeniable demand, “Rogoff is mine!”
The Bait Page 16