Beyond the Carousel

by Bette Lee Crosby

  At least that’s what I’m praying will happen.

  Looking at it realistically, I know there’s a very slim chance I’ll come up with something but I’m sticking with it. Emory deserves to have closure, and the truth is I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t give it everything I’ve got.

  Needle in a Haystack

  The next morning Jack went directly to the Morgenstern building. Before he’d gotten through the first question the building manager, a narrow-faced fellow in his twenties, said he’d only been on the job a year and couldn’t be held responsible for any prior problems. When told the questions were in reference to a homicide, he put his hand to his mouth and started chewing on his fingernails.

  “Is this a security issue?” he asked.

  “Not currently,” Jack replied. “The homicide occurred back in 1930. We’re looking into it to make sure nothing was overlooked or missed the first time.”

  “Good grief, don’t tell me somebody is looking to sue.”

  “Absolutely not. This is just a routine investigation.”

  The young manager pinched his brows together and gave a suspicious looking frown. “A routine investigation? After twenty-five years?”

  “Sort of a double check,” Jack said. “Before we close the books.”

  After a good fifteen minutes of going back and forth, the manager finally agreed to check the archives.

  “Just don’t get your hopes up,” he said and disappeared into the back room.

  He was gone for well over a half hour, and when he finally did return he said, “We’ve got nothing on a janitor named Abraham Porter.”

  “What about Brentwood Accounting, Margery Kramer’s firm?”

  “They declared bankruptcy and defaulted on the lease in 1933.”

  After wasting another hour, Jack left with nothing more than he already had. Twenty-five years was a long time. Perhaps too long.

  * * *

  Back at the stationhouse, Jack again opened the evidence box and started rereading the statements. So far all he was doing was getting the same or less than what was contained in the statements of 25 years ago. There had to be something else, something not seen last time. He pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer and started mapping out what would have been George Feldman’s world.

  In the center of the page was a square labeled “George.” Surrounding that box were boxes for the others who played a part in the original investigation. In one box Jack wrote “Mama Feldman”; beneath her name he wrote “deceased.”

  One by one he filled in the other names: coworkers, neighbors, aunt, father, possible girlfriend. As he traced and retraced the connections, he marked an X across those that had already resulted in a dead end. He also crossed out the ones who were deceased. After nearly two hours of checking the earlier statements and reports, he was left with only two loose ends: the mysterious girlfriend and the unheard-from father.

  He had nothing to go on about the girlfriend and very little on the father whose name was Norman Feldman. Up until the day he walked off and left his wife and son to fend for themselves, he’d worked as an electrician. The only description was a tall man with dark hair. There was no photo.

  Jack sat there for a long while looking at that square. Twice he started to cross off the father because reports stated the man hadn’t seen his son for the ten years prior to the murder. Each time he thought better of it. Jack knew if he were in trouble, the first one he’d turn to would be his dad or Emory who was like a dad. Maybe, just maybe, George felt the same way and found a way to get in touch with his father.

  How?

  Suddenly it dawned on him there was a chance that if Norman Feldman continued to work as an electrician, he would have joined a union when the big push to unionize started in ’38.

  Jack called across to Schulte. “Hey, Leon, you know if there’s a union for electricians?”

  Schulte grinned. “I ought to; Jenny’s brother belongs to it.”

  The International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers was broken out by state, so Schulte started with Local 103 out of Richmond. When he found no Norman Feldman, he continued on until he’d contacted every local chapter in the state of Virginia. Looking back to Jack, he gave a single shoulder shrug.

  “Good hunch, but there’s no Norman Feldman in Virginia.”

  “Try New Jersey,” Jack replied.

  Back in 1930 Debra Feldman lived in New Jersey, so it was likely that Norman, probably her brother, would have gone there when he left Virginia.

  After another six or seven phone calls, Schulte hung up the receiver then grinned and said, “Bingo. We’ve got him. Hudson County Local 409.”

  He then briefed Jack on what he’d found. “Norman Feldman was a member of IBEW until seven years ago when he retired. Here’s the last known address and phone number.”

  Since Jack started his search he’d learned something: people had a reluctance to talk about anything involving criminal activity. He suspected that most everybody had some little thing they wanted to hide. And the minute he mentioned homicide, he could virtually see the hair on the backs of their necks rising up. This time he was going to take a different approach.

  He went into one of the smaller offices, closed the door and dialed the New Jersey number he’d been given. A man answered.

  “Good afternoon,” Jack replied, acting as if he had all the time in the world. “May I ask if you are Norman Feldman?”

  “Yeah. Who’re you?”

  “My name is Mahoney. I represent Reliable Steel. We’d like to get in touch with your son, George, regarding his pension plan.”

  “Pension plan? You gotta be kidding. George hasn’t worked since God knows when.”

  Mahoney forced a chuckle, trying to sound like this was nothing more than a casual follow through.

  “Yes, I know. I have his employment records right in front of me. But his plan was set up back in twenty-nine, and now that he’s nearing the official retirement age we’re legally obligated to pay it out.” He hesitated a moment then added, “Unless he’s deceased.”

  “He ain’t deceased,” Norman said, “but he ain’t here either.”

  “Do you have an address where we can get in touch with him?”

  For a long moment there was only silence on the other end of the phone.

  Sensing his indecision, Jack said, “George will need to sign these forms before we can start issuing checks.”

  “How much money are we talking about?” Norman asked.

  “Well, George was only in the plan for two years, but with compounding it should come in somewhere about thirty-eight dollars a month.”

  “George could sure use that money.” Norman gave a sigh of reluctance. “I haven’t seen the boy in a long while, but last I heard he was staying with my sister in Richmond.”

  “Can you give me her address and phone number?”

  “Debra Hettinger. I don’t know that she’s got a phone, but the address is 721 Butcher Street. And, uh…do me a favor, will ya?”

  “Of course.”

  “Tell the kid I’m glad something good is finally happening for him.”

  “Sure,” Jack replied, feeling a bit of sympathy for Norman. It was easy to be judgmental, but being a parent was no easy task.

  Jack’s next call was to Captain Hennessy over at the Richmond precinct. He explained the situation and asked if he could have one of the local guys ride with him in case he found George Feldman there.

  “After coming this far, I don’t want to drop the ball on this because of a jurisdictional problem.”

  End of the Road

  Before Mahoney and Schulte left the stationhouse, Jack called Christine and told her he’d be late getting home.

  “Don’t wait dinner,” he said. “I’ll grab something on the road.”

  It was a four-hour drive to Richmond, but on this particular afternoon they made it in three-and-a-half. The first stop was at the Richmond East stationhouse where they picked up Ed Boyden,
the detective who was to work with them. Having worked the Richmond precinct, Jack was familiar with Ed. He was the senior detective on the squad, well known and well liked.

  “Is this your first case on the Wyattsville squad?” Ed asked.

  “Not my first,” Jack said, “but the first homicide.”

  “I understand this is a 1930 cold case,” Ed said. “They must think a lot of you to assign a toughie like this to a newcomer.”

  “Captain Rogers didn’t exactly assign it,” Jack said and told of how he’d asked for the case because of the promise he’d made to Emory.

  Butcher Street was in a run-down neighborhood of grayed town houses pushed up against each other. They were all pretty much the same. No grass or flowers, just a cement square bordered by a three-foot high iron fence and garbage cans chained in place to prevent thievery. A low hanging door squeezed in beneath the stoop led to what was most likely the basement. The stoop rose above the cement yard with five or six steps leading up to the front door. Number 721 was no better or worse than the others.

  When they got out of the car, Jack stepped back and suggested Boyden take the lead.

  “I don’t want to blow this because of inexperience,” he said.

  “I’ll cover the back,” Schulte said and circled around to the alley behind the houses.

  Jack stealthily climbed the fence and stood next to the basement door with his back pressed to the wall. Once Schulte was in place, he gave a nod and Boyden climbed the front steps and bonged the doorbell. A woman wearing a flowered housecoat opened the door.

  “I’m looking for George Feldman,” Boyden said.

  “Why?”

  He caught the smell of whiskey on her breath. “How about we go inside and talk about it?”

  She narrowed her eyes and looked him up and down. “You a cop?”

  Boyden laughed. “Do I look like a cop?”

  With an expressionless look she gave a shrug.

  “Look, I’ve been told George has money coming to him. If he’s not interested, that’s fine by me.” Boyden turned as if he were going to walk off.

  “Wait,” she called and pulled the door open. “I’ll get him.”

  She turned toward the back of the house. Boyden followed her partway across the living room then stopped and watched. The house was a string of railroad-style rooms, and from where he stood he could see back to the kitchen. In there he heard a door click open, and she called down.

  “Hey, Georgie, you got company.”

  A man’s voice answered. “I ain’t expecting no company.”

  “Come on up, it’s about some money you’re owed,” she said.

  George Feldman knew better. He lost every last dime he had to Broadhurst, and with it he’d lost the opportunity to ever hope for anything more.

  “Bullshit!” he yelled then bolted for the basement door.

  Before he was clear of the doorjamb, Jack was on top of him. Hearing the scuffle, Boyden ran from the house but by that time Jack had George face down on the cement.

  “Need bracelets?” Boyden asked with a grin.

  “Nope.” Jack pulled a pair of handcuffs from his back pocket, clicked the first one onto Feldman’s right wrist then pulled his arms back and clicked the left in place.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Franklin Wilkes,” Jack said as he pulled Feldman to his feet. By then Debra Hettinger was scurrying down the front stairs.

  “What the hell is going on here?” she screamed. “You said you wasn’t a cop!”

  Without addressing the charge, Boyden replied, “Your nephew is being arrested for murder.”

  “Georgie never murdered nobody! He owed money to some thugs. You arresting him for owing money?”

  Jack turned to her. “In 1930 George murdered a stockbroker named Franklin Wilkes. Shot him point blank in the chest six times for no reason other than he’d lost money in the market.”

  For a moment Debra just stood there with an empty-eyed look. Then she turned to Jack.

  “It was a long time ago. Georgie’s not that way anymore. He’s sick, he needs me to take care of him.”

  As Jack opened the iron gate and led George out onto the street, she followed along.

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “Georgie’s ate up with cancer. You can see how sick he is. Would you have a dying man spend his last few months locked up in a prison cell?”

  “Put him in the car,” Jack said, passing Feldman to Schulte. He turned back to Debra. “Your nephew had twenty-five years of life that Franklin Wilkes didn’t have. He was walking around free as a bird while Franklin was buried beneath the ground. George took a good man’s life because he was angry over something that wasn’t even Franklin’s fault. So, yes, I am going to cart him off to jail, because that’s where he belongs.”

  “But he’s sick,” she said through tears. “Can’t you let him stay here under house arrest so he can die a merciful death?”

  “Dying in prison is a far more merciful death than he gave Franklin,” Jack replied. He climbed into the car and slammed the door.

  As they pulled away, he glanced back and saw Debra Hettinger still standing in the middle of the street with her arms outstretched and tears rolling down her cheeks. In an odd way he felt sorry for her. She was yet another victim of George Feldman’s vengeful crime.

  * * *

  It was well after midnight when Jack returned home, and by then George Feldman had been fingerprinted and locked in a holding cell. There was no doubt his fingerprints would match those found at the murder scene.

  The next morning Jack left early and stopped at Emory’s apartment on his way into the stationhouse. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat across from Emory at the breakfast table. For the first time he spoke to Emory of the search for George Feldman and explained how he had finally been found.

  “Dear God,” Emory murmured. “After all this time…”

  “He’ll be arraigned this afternoon,” Jack said. “I thought maybe you’d want to be there.”

  Emory nodded. His eyes filled with water, and his voice was thick with emotion when he spoke.

  “How can I ever thank you…”

  Jack reached across the table and covered Emory’s trembling hand with his own.

  “Don’t,” he said. “I only did what I’m supposed to do. You’re the one who should be thanked. Had you not held on to Franklin’s story and believed that a day of retribution would come, the case would still be gathering dust in the Harbor Street warehouse.”

  They sat in silence for several minutes; then Emory wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and looked across at Jack.

  “Franklin would have been real proud to have you as a son-in-law,” he said. “Real proud.”

  “After all I’ve learned about Franklin, I would have been just as proud to have him as a father-in-law,” Jack replied.

  That afternoon when George Feldman was arraigned, Emory was sitting in the back of the courtroom. The man who stood beside a court-appointed defense attorney bore little resemblance to the newspaper photograph of so many years ago. He still had the same angry eyes, but his face had grown narrow and slack-skinned. His shoulders were narrow and rounded over; his arms hung at his sides and were thin as a child’s.

  The defense lawyer told of George Feldman’s cancer and asked that he be released on bail to continue his treatments and convalesce at home, but even as he spoke his words were thin and without conviction.

  The prosecutor argued that Feldman was a flight risk. He’d avoided arrest twenty-five years earlier by skipping town, and there was no reason to believe he would not do so again. The judge nodded.

  “I agree. The accused is to be held without bail,” he said and banged the gavel.

  When Jack left the courthouse, Emory followed him back to the station where they sat and talked.

  “Have you told Christine yet?” Emory asked.

  Jack shook his head. “I thought I’d wait until after the trial. After look
ing at how gruesome those crime scene photos are, I’d prefer she didn’t see them.”

  Thinking back on how Laura had reacted to the single photograph published in the newspapers, Emory winced, rubbed a hand across his forehead and nodded.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  And so it was decided between them that nothing would be said to Christine until the trial was over and George Feldman shipped off to prison.

  Although Feldman pleaded innocent, it was a cut-and-dried case. The defense attorney argued that the records were twenty-five years old and a number of witnesses no longer alive. The prosecutor claimed fingerprints were fingerprints and George Feldman’s were not only all over the crime scene, they were also on the bullets taken from Franklin’s body.

  After less than two hours of deliberation, a jury declared George Feldman guilty. The judge set a sentencing date for the following month.

  Emory

  Jack told Christine everything after the trial was over. She cried and said that she should have been there. I told her I agreed with Jack. Seeing that picture in the newspaper caused your mama to have nightmares for the rest of her life, I said, and Jack was trying to save you from the same thing.

  The three of us went to the sentencing together and sat with her in between Jack and me. At that point they weren’t showing evidential things like her daddy’s bloody shirt and those terrible pictures of his body. It was just a feeble-looking man turned old before his time standing next to the young lawyer who’d represented him.

  In a voice that was flat as a table, the judge looked down at George Feldman and said he’d committed a senseless and brutal crime, which he would now pay for by spending the next twenty-five years in the Brigham Correctional Center.

  I could say that case was the making of Jack’s career, but the truth is I always knew he’d make a fine detective. He’s got a look that you don’t see on many faces. When he listens to someone tell of an injustice, you can see the concern on his face. He cares about people, and he cares about justice.