At the end of the conversation, Grant excused himself, thanked Samson for his time and wished him luck in the evening’s performance. The actor replied with a look of disgust.
“You’re obviously green to this,” Samson said. “Never wish an actor luck. That’s the death nail for a performance. I may as well be cursed for the evening now.”
If he only knew.
Once Grant was clear of the room, Samson finished his gin in one gulp and began applying his makeup for the night. He started with the white foundation that would give him the appearance of a slightly older man. He was applying powder to his his cheeks when there was another knock on the door.
“What is it?” Samson barked, less enthusiastically than before. He heard the door open, but didn’t bother to turn around. He glanced at the entryway from his mirror and continued his work.
“You’re back” he said. “Did you forget something?”
He never heard the answer. Before the visitor could speak, the door snapped closed. Two hands lunged towards the mirror. Before Samson could react, the blood was squeezed from his neck, causing a tremendous pressure in his head. He tried to breathe, but it was no use. The hands pulled him back, lifting the front of the chair from of the ground. Samson clawed at the squeezing fingers and tried to peel them from his flesh. He didn’t stand a chance.
Before he blacked out, he caught a glimpse of a loose tile on the ceiling. He died flat on his back with his legs tangled in an awkward fashion around the chair.
There would be no refund on tickets.
---
It was almost comical by now. Detective Jenkins arrived backstage of the Humboldt to find Harold Grant standing nearby the star corpse. The veteran officer clenched his teeth and spit a little towards the wooden floor.
“Christ,” he said with a voice filled with leather and nails. “I’m starting to think you might be killing these people, Grant. How come you’re always the first to the scene?”
Grant was lighting a cigarette as he surveyed the area. He shot a sly grin towards his rival. “I’ve got an alibi this time, Jenkins,” he said. “I’m covering this play for the paper. I just happened to be backstage when a crew member found Mr. Samson here all deflated.”
The detective grunted under his breath. “Well, this is one way to get you out of the societies and onto the front page.”
“Death is a living,” said Grant.
The room was silent for a while after that. Jenkins explored the contents of Samson’s makeup table. Grant stood by, watching the gathering group of officers look for clues. They examined the body and how its legs wrapped around the chair. Samson’s head was turned sharply to the left, his purple neck looking ridiculously bright against the white foundation spread partially among his face.
His jaw was clenched closed and there was only a small peek of his blue eyes showing through closed lids.
He was dead alright. Deader than Shakespeare.
Just as the stretcher removed the blanket-draped corpse from the room, a young man shot through the door. His face was almost as round as his belly. His arms were thick and covered with hair. His eyes wide with shock.
“So it’s true,” he said with sagged shoulders. “It’s all true.”
The officers ignored the man, but Grant didn’t. He’d been in business long enough to know when a good quote could be had.
“Who are you?” Grant asked.
“Me?” the man said, looking around as if someone else was in the room. “Oh, I’m Jim Sanders. I’m Mr. Samson’s understudy.”
“Understudy, you say?” Grant asked. “It looks like you’ll be the star tonight.”
That word, “star,” brought a crinkled smile to Sanders’ mouth. It spread, despite his attempts to tamper it down.
“I guess so,” Sanders said. “I didn’t expect it to happen like this though.”
“Then how’d you expect it to happen?”
“I don’t know,” Sanders said. “I always supposed I’d work my way up. Small roles become bigger ones. Bigger ones become leads. Leads become… well… I guess that’s it. I mean, I was just in here talking with Paul an hour ago. He was so happy.”
“And it looks like you took a short cut to the big leagues without even playing in the minors. Your turn to be happy, I guess.” Grant said.
“Don’t say it like that,” Sanders said. “You make it sound like I did it on purpose.”
“Did what?” Grant asked.
“Did all this. All of this mess.”
“Did you?”
That question sent Sanders back on his heels. Green eyes cleared up and his expression changed to a look of concern.
“Say,” said Sanders. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Harold Grant. Tribune.”
“If that’s the case, then I’m leaving.”
Without a goodbye, Sanders swiped some of the makeup from Samson’s table and made his way out of the dressing room. As he stormed out, he passed the entering Detective Jenkins and nearly knocked the bigger man off his feet.
“Say Grant,” Jenkins said. “You better get to your seat. I don’t want you around when we talk to his family. If it’s anything like the other day, I might have to notify your family to come identify you.
Grant didn’t respond. He tipped his hat and made his way into the growing crowd. Word hadn’t spread yet from backstage. Instead, an announcer entered from stage left and told the crowd that “Mr. Samson is not feeling well tonight. He will be replaced in the cast by Mr. Jim Sanders.”
As the crowd groaned its disapproval, Grant was busy scrawling Samson’s obituary in his notebook. There would be no review of Sanders’ performance in The Tribune the next morning.
---
By the time the morning editions hit the streets, rumors were spreading about Paul Samson’s condition. Grant’s version of the evening settled the stories.
Jenkins was right. The story made the cover. In block letters, just below the fold.
Paul Samson was a local boy made good. He’d conquered some of the biggest stages in America and was proud to return home a star. His role of Linus Larrabee Jr. in the current run of Sabrina Fair at the Humboldt was likely to earn him a spot on a Broadway marquee. But someone didn’t want to see that happen.
For the second time this week, a murder by strangulation happened in this town. As Maria Manley was being laid to rest, someone entered Samson’s dressing room and choked the actor to death as he prepared for Friday’s performance. Police are as baffled by the second murder as they are the first.
Samson was applying his makeup for the night when his murderer entered the dressing room and attacked him from behind. Deep fingertip imprints on the front of his neck show that he may have never even seen his attacker. He was found by a stagehand 45 minutes before the curtain was to be opened for the evening play.
As word spread in the local theatre community, actors and actresses rushed to the Humboldt to confirm the rumors, only to be turned away because of the evening’s performance. As word moved into the crowd, some attendees decided to leave at intermission, fearful that the strangler was among them.
Samson was replaced in the cast by Jim Sanders, a longtime understudy.
“I didn’t expect it to happen like this,’ Sanders said when learning of his mentor’s death.
Funeral arrangements are to be determined.
The baseball box scores were all James ever read in the newspaper. Of course he knew about the stranglings. Everyone in town did. Why read about them and ruin breakfast? That time was dedicated to the scores page.
His eggs and coffee let off enough steam to haze the first hints of sunlight that peeked through the kitchen window. It was a rough month for James, but the Dodgers were winning again and only two games out of first place. It would be a good season if they could keep hitting the ball. James wouldn’t make it to the end of summer, though. For him, there were two outs in the bottom of the ninth.
The drive to work wasn�
��t noteworthy. Traffic was the same as always. All the lights were red and the crosswalks packed. He coasted into his office ten minutes late. When you’re the youngest executive in company history, you can do that.
June, his secretary, was waiting with a smile and a handful of missed call notes.
“You’re early,” she said with a smile that spread across her painted lips. She knew what he’d been through lately and tried to start the day with a joke. “Better not make a habit of this.”
“I guess I’ll just have to leave a little early to make up for it,” James returned with a smile of his own. He grabbed the notes and shut the door to his office. It was a big number with thick carpeting and a desk cut from an overpriced hunk of wood. Windows stared into downtown, where business was starting to pick up for the day. The swivel chair behind the desk was well worn to his specifications. It creaked its greeting as he sat down and hit the intercom button on the desk.
“June,” he said, “cancel my meetings for the morning. Turn away all customers. I’ll be busy.”
There was a moment of silence before the electronic crackle of June’s voice clicked back. “I already did. I had a feeling.”
James nodded his approval. Good help was hard to find, and June was the best. He made a mental note to give her a raise when all of this was over. She’d never see that raise.
After a few minutes of pushing papers around the desk and calling no one back, James headed back into the lobby. The bakery on the corner was about to open and it was time for the morning walk for a doughnut. He promised to bring June back a cup of coffee and made his way through the glass door that held his name in gilded letters.
The streets were fairly quiet for a Thursday morning. The walk to the bakery was about three blocks and James only passed a few people on his way there. By the time he started the walk back to the office, he’d eaten two doughnuts and saved one for later. The other three were for June.
A lot of people wondered why James never married. His job was all the wife he needed. It took up nearly all of his time anyway. The spare minutes leftover were dedicated to the Dodgers.
It was his favorite baseball club that he thought about on the walk back to the office. He walked a little slower this time, looking to waste a few extra minutes before getting back to work. The smell of June’s coffee sunk itself deep into James’ nose and he breathed it in with long, slow drags. It was the first moments of peace he’d felt in a month. It was so peaceful that he almost didn’t feel the pair of hands grab him and drag him into an alley a block from the office.
James never had a chance to see who grabbed him. Things went black too quick. The air flew out of him and the spilled coffee burned his chest. He blacked out in a few seconds and was left on the side entry door to Giuseppe's Tailor Shop. A few months later, the Yankees would beat the Dodgers in six games to win the World Series. At least he wouldn’t have to live through another heartbreak.
---
If there was any consolation to a third murder by strangulation, it was that Detective Jenkins beat the reporter Grant to the scene this time. After all, Giuseppe’s was only a few blocks from the police station. Still, Grant arrived to the scene before the coroner or crime scene photographer.
“Is it safe to call it a serial killing yet?” Grant asked the detective, who was busy combing through the pockets of the deceased.
“Don’t get too excited,” Jenkins said. “Everyone in town is anxiously awaiting your next story. They’ll call it whatever you name it. Such is life.”
“You mean such is death,” the reporter said. “That’s the power of the press.”
“If that’s power,” said Jenkins, “then count me out.”
The two didn’t talk for the next several minutes. They’d seen enough of each other and exchanged enough pleasantries in the last two weeks to satisfy a year’s worth of meetings. Instead, Grant eavesdropped on the uniformed officers that tended to chat a little too loud. It wasn’t long before he had the address and name of the office building where James worked.
While a group of officers headed to the office, Grant fed a dime in a payphone around the corner and chatted for a few moments with a co-worker. No one noticed as he exited the scene in the opposite direction.
---
Thoughts tumbled around and mixed with new bits of information in Grant’s head as he took the fifteen minute drive to the outskirts of the city. Several neighborhoods dotted the way. The houses grew larger the further he drove. After double checking the address he wrote on the back of his notebook, he settled his car along the curb of a two-story brick home, partially hidden behind a row of bright green bushes. The sunlight reflected off of windows blanketed with drawn curtains. If there was a way to see inside, Grant couldn’t find it.
Several moments passed after Grant rapped his knuckles on a hunk of wood that doubled as a door. The sound echoed and disappeared into the house. No answer. Before he could draw his hand back from the second knock attempt, a lock clicked and the door slid open about a foot. A hulking figure in a long coat and hat peered back at him through the opening. Grant nodded his head in a greeting, but the man inside didn’t return the favor.
“I told you I’ve got nothing to say,” the raspy voice bit into the air. “Now if you don’t mind, I have somewhere to be.”
“You sure do,” Grant said. “You must be getting used to this by now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This whole ‘next of kin’ thing. Three times this month you’ve had to go down and identify a body. It must be getting old.”
Ben Peterson tried to slam the door closed, but Grant’s foot was conveniently blocking the way. The journalist wanted to yelp in pain, but his manly pride wouldn’t allow it. Instead he caught the much larger man by surprise and pushed his way into the home.
The place was even larger inside than out. A massive staircase faced the front door and pointed to the second floor with it’s thick padding of red velvet. Stone railings glistened in the light that snuck in through the opened door. Peterson wasn’t amused.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he snapped. “I have the right mind to -”
“Call the cops?” Grant cut him off. “Go ahead. Call them and tell them how you strangled your daughter Maria Manley - the former Maria Peterson - in front of her house.
“What?” Peterson yelled.
“Sure,” Grant said with a sneer. “And then how you visited your son, Paul Samson, just before the curtain of his new play. I called the paper this morning and found out that Samson was just a stage name. Paul Peterson was his real name, but he changed it because he didn’t like the alliteration. What happened when you visited him?”
“Get out” Peterson yelled. His voice cracked and his face was as red as McCarthy’s nightmares.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Grant continued. “You came in and told your son to skip the performance to attend his sister’s wake. When he refused, you stormed out. Then you came back a little later and did to him just what you did to your daughter.”
Peterson took a step towards Grant. His hands were spread open and as big as catcher’s mitts. Grant readied himself for an attack. He’d come this far. Why stop now?
I hadn’t pieced it together until this morning, when I overheard the officers talking about searching James Peterson’s office for clues to why he was killed. You know they’re going to start suspecting you soon. I hope you have a good alibi.”
“Of course I do,” Peterson barked. I was here this morning. All morning. I...I…”
Before he could finish, Peterson’s hands shot up around Grant’s neck. The journalist struggled to work his fingers into the mammoth grip of his attacker. His face felt warm and he could feel his heart beating a quick rhythm in his head. Time slowed down as Peterson jerked Grant’s head from side to side. The anger and violence lit up his eyes in the dim entryway to the home.
“You don’t understand,” Peterson hissed. “My whole lif
e I worked for them. When their mother died, they didn’t even show up here to check on me. Paul out on his plays. Maria planning a wedding. James busy at work.”
Grant balled his fists and tried pounding on the arms that decided whether he lived or died. It was like trying to punch a brick wall.
“Then,” Peterson continued without thought, “Paul won’t even come to Maria’s wake. James still doesn’t come to check on me. His secretary says he’s not taking any calls. They’re all ungrateful brats. All of them. They deserved everything -”
Before Grant could learn what exactly they deserved, he used the last ounce of energy he had stored to drive his left knee into an area no man should hit another man. But when you’re seconds from death, and you’re starting to see the light of the pearly gates, certain rules no longer exist.
Peterson loosened his grip just enough for Grant to fall backwards and gasp for air. He had but one short moment to gather himself before the giant man was back on top of him. Grant used his smaller size and quickness to spin away from Peterson, sending the bigger man to the floor empty handed. Grant rose to his feet and swayed in a dizzy haze as he threw his right foot into his foe’s side with all of his strength. A wheeze came from Peterson’s ribcage. He jerked onto his back to avoid more blows. Grant continued to pummel away with his foot until the big man grabbed his leg and pulled him onto the floor.
An exchange of punches wasn’t going in Grant’s favor. The writer felt the affects of the knocks and tried to crawl away from the battle, but Peterson’s large hands wrapped tightly around his shoulders and pulled them back. The hot-dog sized fingers crept slowly back towards Grant’s neck as he gripped at the marbled floor and fought for enough traction to get away. He slipped and the side of his head slammed against the hard ground. The world began to spin. Something warm tickled the side of his head. Peterson’s grip tightened. The contents of Grant’s coat pocket spilled with a clatter in front of him. A notebook, a set of office keys, and his pen.
Warm Hands, Cold Heart Page 3