Killed in the Ratings

by William L. DeAndrea

  I was about to tell Roxanne good-bye when the front door opened and Cynthia Schick walked in. You could feel the temperature drop.

  “Oh, Matt,” she said as she closed the door behind her. “I didn’t know you were still here. I hope Roxanne has been keeping you amused.”

  “We’ve had a real ball, Mother.” The claws were sharp on both of them. Evidently, they got in a lot of practice.

  Roxanne said, “We wondered where you were.”

  “I had to deliver some of your father’s things to the insurance company’s office. I’m sorry that I didn’t consult you.”

  I hate cat fights. I broke in to say I’d be heading back to the city.

  “Thank you for driving me home, Mr. Cobb. Please visit us again.”

  “I’ll make it a point,” I said.

  She excused herself, and went upstairs. Roxanne walked me through the jungle of houseplants to the door. She looked right at home in her ragged outfit. “Good-bye, Cobb,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but don’t feel obligated to be a hero, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I assured her. “I’m such a chicken, I was drafted on the first round by Frank Perdue.”

  I bent to give her an avuncular good-bye kiss on the forehead, but she moved, changing the target to her mouth, and responded in a very unniecelike way, so I broke it off, and went.

  A stop at the nearest headquarters of the State Police removed the last vestige of doubt that Walter Schick had met with no foul play. They had done it up brown, and from every scientific vantage point, from metallurgy to meteorology, it was an accident.

  Okay. So it was an accident. That wasn’t the truth Walter Schick had hanging over him, and that Carlson was going to spill to me. I had no idea how to go looking for what it was.

  And, as I was startled to realize, I didn’t care anymore. I wanted this whole business off my back. I’d give Lieutenant Martin the story on Devlin, and keep my mouth shut otherwise. If the truth about Walter Schick was that important, it would come out eventually. I was tired of the whole bit. The Truth shall make you tired.

  Having made my decision, I felt considerably better about things as I drove back to the Tower of Babble.

  10

  “What a revoltin’ development this is!”

  —William Bendix, “The Life of Riley” (NBC)

  I GOT BACK TO NetHQ before the first wave of rush hour traffic swarmed the streets of Manhattan, so it was relatively easy to get the dinosaur stowed away.

  Jazz had a whole list of things to tell me when I got back to the office.

  “Jack Hansen called,” she said. “He’ll be down in the newsroom all afternoon. Harris called. He said he’s dating a secretary from the Russian Embassy, and he’s putting it on the expense account. He said to tell you he’ll have our guys put up as guests of honor at the Kremlin before he’s through.”

  I wouldn’t put it past him. Harris Brophy is the freest spirit I ever met. I never saw anybody worry less and accomplish more.

  “Did Millie Heywood call yet?” I asked.

  “No, she didn’t. I can check with her if you want.”

  “Yeah, do that. Anything else?”

  “Yes. Lieutenant Martin of the police is waiting for you in your office.”

  “Damn it, Jazz, don’t do that!” She had saved the blockbuster for last again, like a damn juggling act.

  “Yes, sir. I won’t do it again.” We both knew she was lying. I could tell from the twinkle in her eye.

  “How long has the lieutenant been here?”

  “Fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Okay. No calls except from Millie, Jazz.”

  Lieutenant Martin had his nose buried in my SIK file (Scandals If Known) that’s supposed to be under lock and key at all times. He was sitting in my chair with his feet up on my desk.

  He pretended not to notice me for a few seconds, then looked up from his reading and said, “You know, Matty, if this TV stuff ever palls on you, you could make a pretty good living as a blackmailer.”

  “Right,” I said. “And when police work loses its magic, you can become a burglar.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, boy. The drawer was open.”

  “I believe you,” I said. “I believed Nixon, too. May I have my desk back, please?”

  He got up and walked around to a chair facing the desk.

  “The reason I’m here, Matty,” he said, “is because we have come to that point in the investigation where we go back to the beginning. Mostly because we’re not getting anywhere to the end. I want to hear your whole story again.”

  “You won’t have to,” I said. “Where’s Rivetz?”

  “He’s looking into something interesting we found out.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “I wanted him to hear this.” I cleared my throat for effect. “I know who killed Carlson,” I declared.

  There was no expression on the lieutenant’s face, but his eyes were bright. He said, “I’m waiting, Matty.”

  “Vern Devlin,” I said.

  He laughed in my face. That wasn’t supposed to happen. He was supposed to be bewildered until I explained it to him. I don’t think he reads the right books.

  I waited patiently for him to stop. Finally, he mastered himself enough to say, “Okay, mastermind, Devlin killed Carlson. Why?”

  I had been kind of hoping he could tell me. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “How do you explain his alibi, which, I remind you, is supplied by you, along with an NYPD homicide detective and—”

  “That’s just it!” I broke in. “Look, when I was on the phone with Devlin, he wouldn’t let me hang up. He was begging me to keep his name out of it. Then the two uniforms bust in and yell ‘Police’ loud enough to give every pimp in Times Square a heart attack. He had to have heard it. So, after begging me to keep him a secret, does he hang up the phone on his end? No. He waits patiently for Rivetz to pick up that phone and talks to him.

  “He wasn’t really trying to keep his name out, he was stalling me.”

  “Maybe he didn’t think he had you sold on keeping quiet, and figured it would be better to talk to the police after all,” said Lieutenant Martin.

  I thought about that one for a second. “How did he even know the police were coming? I didn’t call them. Was there a vice raid in the hotel or something? Why were you guys there in the first place?”

  “Got an anonymous call,” he admitted.

  “Aha!” I said. I was really into it, now. “Don’t you see? Devlin made the anonymous call. He sneaks into the hotel by the back stairs, kills Carlson, sneaks out the same way. He calls in the anonymous tip, and watches for the cops to show up, all from the phone booth nearby. He’s got some hooker or something handy, to fake the operator’s voice, and times the call for when he figures the police should just be reaching the room.

  “But, having sneaked in and out, he doesn’t know the elevator’s not working. When I wake up from the conk on the head he’s given me, and answer the phone, he gives me the first phony story he can think of to keep me on the line until he can get his alibi firmly established. If I hadn’t blundered in on him the way I did, his slight miscue on the timing wouldn’t have been as important.”

  I paused for breath. “What’s wrong with that theory?” I wanted to know.

  The lieutenant looked exasperated. “The only thing wrong with it is that—”

  The intercom buzzed. I picked up the phone, waving a hand to stop Lieutenant Martin. I had Millie Heywood on the line.

  “Have you heard anything from the phone company yet, Millie dear?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I meant to call you, but you should see what the assholes down here have done to me now. I mean it—”

  “Dammit, Millie, what did you find out?”

  It had been so long since anybody had yelled at her, she was shocked into absolute docility.

  “Okay, Matt,” she said softly. “Don’t get testy. Here it i
s. Phone company guy I talked to even double-checked it with the switchboard at the place.”

  Here it comes, I thought. A nice juicy piece of evidence to hand the lieutenant. Then, with luck, I could forget the whole mess.

  Millie went on. “Phone company computerized billing shows that a call went from that Washington, D.C., number to the Hotel Cameron in New York City at twelve minutes after eight Tuesday night, meaning yesterday.”

  My jaw fell open.

  “Huh?” I said intelligently. “That’s not possible!” I exclaimed.

  “What’s the matter?” Millie asked. “Don’t you like twelve minutes after eight? Anyway, the switchboard log at Communications Research, Inc., says the same thing.

  Listen, Matt, the guy at the phone company asked me why was it I was checking on the same call the police had been asking about. I’m not going to get in trouble, am I, Cobb?”

  I couldn’t stand it. “No, no trouble, Millie. Thanks a lot.”

  “Anytime,” she said.

  After she hung up, I sat there with the phone in my hand, tempted to bounce it off the skull of Detective Lieutenant Cornelius U. Martin, Jr. He was laughing twice as hard as before. It went on a long time. A more embarrassed man than I was at that moment has never walked the earth.

  Finally, he wiped his eyes, sighed, and said, “Matty, you’ve done an old man good, I swear. If you could have seen your face. That was the news about Devlin’s call, right?”

  I didn’t trust myself to do anything but nod.

  “I hate to be laughing at you, but it serves you right. You’re a smart boy, Matty, and I’m the first to admit you’ve helped me lots of times. But this is murder, and you’ve got to learn you can’t go off half-cocked. A report on that was on my desk before you were even brought to the office. And I had the D.C. police check it out at the source. The switchboard girl at CRI swears the call came from that building and that it was Devlin who made it.

  “Now, let me have your story again. From the top.”

  I gave it to him, still saving Walter Schick. I was back in the mess, and I figured I had to solve it, in self-defense.

  That point was brought forcefully home to me when, after I finished, the lieutenant said, “Okay, Matty, I guess you know what you’re doing.” He shrugged. “By the way, Tony Groat, the Teobaldi woman’s boyfriend, is out of it—left-handed. There goes a top suspect.”

  “Who’s the top suspect now?” I asked

  “If I had to name one, Matty,” he said, “it would have to be you.” He picked up his hat. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Rivetz about this afternoon.” He walked out.

  Back to square one. I might as well have been back in room 414. I opened a roll of butter-rum Life Savers, put two in my mouth. I went downstairs to talk to Jack Hansen.

  Seniority, and the necessity of maintaining some degree of secrecy at times, got Jack Hansen’s desk moved out of the directed insanity of the Channel 10 newsroom and into a little windowless cubicle that had been a broom closet in the original blueprints. He was editing copy for a public affairs documentary when I walked in.

  He addressed my demeanor and general appearance. “Well, well,” he said. “A midnight bender? You look like an unclaimed body.”

  “Considering how I feel,” I said, “that’s a compliment. I got your message. Got anything?”

  “Quite a bit,” he said. “Sit down. No, over here. I want a good look at your face while I talk to you.”

  “You too, huh?”

  “What?”

  I told him never mind. He put a briefcase on his desk, opened it, took out some notes. He was very professional. If the Network were to produce a series called “Jack Hansen, Crime Reporter,” they wouldn’t even consider hiring Jack to play himself because he looks too much like an actor; tall and slim, with his brown hair showing some distinguished-looking grey at the temples, and just enough worry lines in his handsome face to give it character.

  “The first thing I found out is who found the body,” he said.

  “And?” I wasn’t surprised. He had too many friends on the force not to have uncovered that.

  “And you’re lucky to still be walking around loose. That statement you signed looks like an excursion ticket to Sing Sing.”

  “That’s the big story I promised you,” I said. “A first-person account of how I did it.” Seriously, I added, “Is that little fact important enough to use?”

  “Not until they arrest you,” he said. “Come on, Matt, you were a newsman before you went astray. This just isn’t much of a story. Do you know how many bodies are found in hotel rooms in this city every day? If you want coverage, it’s got to be the mutilated corpse of a little kid or something.

  “I’ll tell you what. I won’t use the story until one of the papers or another station breaks it.”

  “Thanks. Did you find out anything about Carlson?”

  “Yes, but I want to save that for last. Would you like to know the current thinking of the police?”

  “I certainly would,” I said. As the number one suspect, I figured I owed it to myself to find out.

  Jack rubbed an eyebrow. “I got a lot of this from a certain file clerk who likes to peek at reports. I confirmed most of it with guys on the investigation.”

  He flipped his notebook open. “Okay. Carlson, under the name of Charles Vincent, checked into the Hotel Cameron at five o’clock. The day clerk says he had no visitors, as far as he knew, and the night clerk, that fellow who looks like a snap-bead, said he had one. You. That doesn’t mean anything, though, because with outside fire escapes and the back stairs, the Detroit Lions could get in and out of the place unseen.

  “Medical Examiner says death occurred at eight o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes, as a result of a piercing of the left ventricle of the heart. Death was practically instantaneous. The murder weapon was determined to be a knife, blade fourteen-point-six centimeters ...”

  “I saw the murder weapon. It was still in the victim’s back at the time.”

  “Mmm hmm. Then you know the knife’s of no big assistance either. In fifteen minutes, with just the money in my pocket, I could buy the identical knife, down to the pearl handle, from ten different sources within a block and a half of that hotel.”

  “You could have bought one in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and brought it with you, too.”

  “Exactly. Worthless as a clue. Anyway, the blow was delivered overhand, from behind, with the right hand.”

  Explaining why Tony was out of it, I thought.

  “Okay,” I said. “I knew his ex-wife, I found the body, and I’m right-handed. I’ve known people who’ve been arrested on less than that. They haven’t even had me down for questioning.”

  “Not everybody has saved a homicide lieutenant’s son from drowning,” Jack said.

  “How do you know about that?” I asked.

  “I checked up on you, too. I wanted a story ready in case you got busted.” He smiled and went on. “Actually, I was kidding before. I know why you’re loose. There are a lot of things they have to explain before they’re ready to get rough on you. Or even impolite.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as the cigarette butts they found in one of the wastebaskets. They’ve been asking all your acquaintances if they’ve ever seen you smoke a cigarette. They even asked me. By now, they should be satisfied you’re the worst enemy the tobacco industry has, outside the Cancer Society.

  “Anyway, they’re sure the cigarettes were smoked by two different people, even though they were all Carlson’s brand. Some were left long, others smoked right down to the filter.”

  Now I knew why Rivetz and Lieutenant Martin had made a point of smoking last night.

  “Hold it,” I said. “The killer and Carlson knew each other, that’s obvious. And they must have been there a long time, to smoke that many. The clerk can testify I got there only about fifteen minutes before the cops did.”

  Jack shook his head. “You could have sneaked b
ack around to the lobby to make a phony alibi for yourself.

  “And you’re right saying it must have been the killer with him. It wasn’t a hooker, no lipstick on the butts.”

  “Women don’t all wear lipstick anymore,” I protested.

  “Hookers still do. And they don’t take time for cigarette breaks. At least not the ones who frequent the Hotel Cameron.”

  “All right,” I said. “That’s one reason I might possibly be innocent. Why else?”

  “Fingerprints,” he said.

  “Bull. That place has got to be lousy with my fingerprints.”

  “Sure,” he conceded. “You left dandy prints on the doorknob, inside and out, on the desk, and the telephone. But there were no prints on the knife.”

  “I could have wiped it,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said again, “but yours were the only prints in that room, except for the ones on the ends of the dead man’s fingers. The ashtray that beaned you was clean.”

  “Then I walked in on the bastard just as he was finishing up wiping the place. He conked me and took off.”

  He nodded. “So, add the fingerprints and the butts to the conk on your head (sure you could have done it yourself, but why?) and the fact that the cops got an anonymous tip from a man just about two minutes after you stumbled into that room, and there’s a lot to give the DA pause before he’s ready to try you for murder.”

  I felt a whole lot better. “Well, Jack, all I can say is thanks. But if I’m in such great shape, why are you so worried about me?”

  Because he did look worried. He eyed me pessimistically and said, “Wait until I tell you about the victim.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s save some time. He was a gambler.”

  “And a drinker.”

  “And a compulsive talker.”

  “Right.”

  “A loser.”

  “Almost always.”

  “Cards?”