The Wizard of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  “You don’t understand. I didn’t say I was a supporter of Ted. I said I wanted him to get elected.”

  “Are we playing word games?”

  “As Ted says, let me clarify my position. With Ted governor, our law partnership has to be dissolved, which is something I’ve been wanting to do for the past year and a half.”

  “I think I see a skeleton through a crack in the closet door.”

  “Not a full-fledged one; perhaps a few flecks of bone, but not a whole skeleton.”

  “What are we getting at, Harry?”

  “Let me bracket the man for you. Ted grew up in the east side of Hartford, where the plaza is now.”

  “I remember the area from when I was young. The slums along the river were torn down for an urban renewal project.”

  “That’s the place. He worked his way through Boston College working nights as a presser in a laundry. He came out of World War II a captain and thought he saw gold at the end of the tunnel, and that the best way to obtain the sheckels was to get a law degree. I’ve seen the old profit-and-loss statements on how he did when he practiced alone in those early years. The truth of the matter is, he averaged less than six thousand a year.”

  “I thought all lawyers were filthy rich.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Some of us are, dear, but the way they’re turning them out of law school these days, we’re all going back to six thousand a year. Anyway, he finally managed to get himself elected to the school board. This is where I come along, a bright young Jewish lawyer looking for a handsome goy beard to round out a firm. I saw a good thing in throwing in with Ted. He’s good-looking, articulate, and has a foot in the political doorway. With Ted active in politics and my holding down the fort at the office, we’d have a good thing going, and we did—until Ted got too greedy.”

  “You’re not trying to tell me that Ted’s on the take?”

  “Of course not. We’re watched pretty closely in this state; you have to attain national office before you become so obvious. No, Ted began playing all the ends against his middle. Nothing overtly dishonest, no flagrant violations of the canons of ethics; a few well-placed calls to the Public Utilities Commission, suggestions that certain clients hire our firm if they had any expectation of favorable legislation. What I call gray lobbying.”

  “You went along with it.”

  For the first time Harry Schwartz averted his eyes and stared across the crowded dining room. When he continued, his voice was faraway and low. “That’s right, I went along with it. And now I’ve got a son who dropped out of law school and lives in a commune up in the Canadian woods. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “I think so.”

  “I found I didn’t need all the money, Bea. For a long while, I thought I did, but Ted’s gotten worse in the last year. I want out, a graceful out, and that’s why I want him elected and why I will deny everything I’ve told you.”

  “We’ve all seen it happen. The edge of the ethical line is awfully narrow, and one day the big opportunity comes along, and it’s easy to cross over.”

  “And I want our relationship severed before that big score happens down the road.” He smiled. “Now, as for you, dearest, your best bet is to get on that ticket with Ted as lieutenant governor, then maybe you’ll luck up and become governor by default when they hang him. In the meanwhile, maybe I’ll luck up this afternoon.”

  Harry suggested an after-the-meal drink at the motel down the road. Bea declined, pleading a massive headache.

  The face of the woman who opened the door of the Dutch colonial was slightly out of focus. Ted Mackay’s wife blinked in the bright sun and her eyes narrowed. “Is that you, Beatrice?”

  “Hi, Wilma. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop in.”

  “Oh, Ted’s not here. He said he’d be late tonight.”

  “I want to see you, Wilma.”

  Wilma Mackay blinked, and then a hesitant smile began and quickly disappeared. She stepped aside and waved Bea inside. It was two in the afternoon, and yet Wilma had to hold to the edge of the sofa with both hands as she fought to keep her eyes aligned on Bea.

  “How nice of you to stop in, Beatrice. I see you so seldom lately. Perhaps you’d like a drink? Not that I usually do in the afternoon, but this is a special occasion, isn’t it?”

  “Thank you, Wilma. Anything that’s easy.”

  Wilma Mackay disappeared into the rear of the house and returned with two orange blossoms. She seemed more relaxed as she handed one to Bea and sank on the sofa.

  The woman sitting before her exhibited a pattern that Bea had found becoming much too prevalent among the housewives of her acquaintance. It seemed to start as husbands became more successful, children grew, and the preparations for the evening cocktail hour started earlier and earlier, until finally the pretense was dropped and the vodka drinking began early in the day.

  They chatted amiably, Bea taking the part of the slightly younger woman asking advice of the older. Children—Wilma’s were now in college and seldom home. The house—how difficult to keep help these days (Bea cringed). They had another drink, and Wilma’s face dissolved even further, the facial lines seeping apart, the eyes squinting to keep Bea in focus.

  “That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your arm,” Bea said.

  Wilma tried to pull her puffed sleeve down over the black welt on her upper arm. “I—I fell.… I—Ted did it. He’s so angry these last months, and my skin bruises so easily, sometimes he even—” She stopped quickly, realizing even in her present state that she had said too much.

  Bea understood that there wasn’t a great deal more she could find out. Ted’s wife had established that recently he had exhibited a proclivity for violence, and his law partner had indicated that ambition and monetary success had become intertwined and an integral part of the man’s personality. Everything she had learned pointed to the fact that Mackay was capable of instigating everything that had happened.

  “I don’t get out very much. My balance, you know. I have trouble with my inner ear,” Wilma said as she drained half the glass.

  “Yes, so I’ve heard. It will be difficult for you if Ted is nominated and elected governor, all those functions.…”

  “Ted and I have already talked about it. His sister will act as hostess. I’m not up to it.”

  “That’s very considerate of him,” Bea said.

  She didn’t stay long; it wasn’t necessary. As she was leaving, Wilma offered her another drink and, when Bea declined, made herself another.

  Sergeant First Class Buck Kincaid had fought in two wars as a personnel clerk, but had doctored his own records to award himself a Purple Heart and two Bronze Stars. The assignment to the Army reserve unit was his last, and in three years he would retire.

  Bea stood in the armory doorway and watched the sergeant’s eyes as they slowly surveyed her body. She realized she was standing with the light to her back, which would clearly outline her figure through the thin summer dress, and she stepped quickly into the office.

  “Nice, but you like them heavier,” she said.

  “Well, yeah,” he said with a slow smile.

  I’m not about to play that damn game again today, she thought to herself. “I’m Senator Wentworth,” she snapped, and slapped her card down on the desk before Kincaid. “From the State Investigating Committee.” If he didn’t inquire into that too closely, she was in good shape.

  He snapped to attention, his face turning to that compliant but stern look career enlisted men cultivate. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  “The committee is investigating conflict of interest between members of the legislature and the federal government. Since some of our representatives are active reserve officers, I wish to see their files. You have them here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We have a duplicate of everything the Department of the Army has except for the efficiency reports.”

  “I’ll start with Senator Mackay’s. I believe he’s a reserve
colonel.”

  “Yes, ma’am. He’s commander of the unit.”

  The 201 file was bulky, with the current material toward the front and everything dated. She found what she wanted near the rear of the file: a personal letter of commendation from General William “Wild Bill” Donovan of the OSS to First Lieutenant Theodore Mackay for his activities during the period March 1 to August 4, 1943.

  She put the papers back into the file, slipped the letter of commendation into her purse and gave the file back.

  She sensed the sergeant’s eyes on her back and legs as she left the office. She couldn’t help smiling a little.

  For the third time, Captain Sean Murdock’s foot pounded into the naked man’s groin. The man clutched himself with both hands, groaned, turned his head, and lay in his own vomit.

  “Read the rest of the arresting report,” Murdock said to the uniformed sergeant seated at the desk in the interrogation room.

  “Substances later identified as controlled drugs were found on subject’s person.”

  “Not drugs?” Murdock asked with wide eyes and false incredulousness.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied.

  “You don’t mean you were going to sell drugs to the impressionable youth of Breeland?” the captain asked the prone man.

  There was a groan from the floor in reply.

  “My, my,” Murdock said and kicked the man in the teeth.

  “Subject resisted arrest and was subdued by Officers Miller, Hattigan and myself,” the sergeant continued in a monotone.

  “Injured as a consequence,” Murdock said, and kicked the man again with his steel-tipped shoe.

  “You’re going to kill him,” Rocco Herbert said softly from the corner of the room.

  “No I’m not,” Murdock replied. “The bastard already has bail posted. But I’ll tell you something. I seriously doubt that he’ll peddle his junk in Breeland again. Will you, buster?” His foot crunched on the man’s fingertips, and Rocco heard a bone snap.

  Rocco was nauseated. He had heard of Murdock’s tactics over the years but had not realized half an hour ago when he sat in the captain’s office that he’d be a witness to them.

  “In most places you bust them and they’re out on bail by dinnertime, having cocktails at some fancy restaurant. Here in Breeland we make sure they aren’t ready for any fancy meals for a long time.”

  “What about lawsuits?” Rocco asked.

  “You got to have the prosecuting attorney in your pocket and full cooperation from the force.”

  “You really find it works?”

  “Hell, yes. Come on, I’ll show you. We’ve got a candidate in the fridge right now.”

  It had started out as a routine interrogation, with Rocco observing. Then the captain had forced the suspect to undress for a search, and then the first kick.

  “He’s passed out, Captain,” the sergeant said.

  “Dress him and throw him out. Come on, Rocco, I’ll buy you a drink.”

  The City Hall Bar and Grill was across the street, and it took two drinks before Murdock began to talk about his dogs. His Great Dane bitch had just whelped, and the event was the source of a seemingly endless number of anecdotes.

  “Cutest damn things you ever saw. Long damn legs, can hardly stand up. Hot damn, I love those dogs!”

  Rocco signaled for another drink. “You know, I’m interested in your technique, Sean. I’ve been having trouble over in Murphysville with the kids. No respect; they just don’t seem to give a damn.”

  “Lean on them and they’ll learn. Hell, man. You’re a big son of a bitch, you’ll have everybody in town scared shitless of you in no time.”

  “Okay,” Rocco said. “So you stomp the creeps, but I have a more serious problem. Can’t convict, and leaning on the bastard isn’t enough. Isn’t nearly enough.”

  Murdock twirled the ice in his highball and looked into the glass. “Use your imagination,” he finally said.

  “Hell, I can’t do it. I’m too conspicuous, and everyone knows me in town. And I can’t trust the men on my force to do it. I thought maybe you had some contacts.”

  Murdock shrugged. “Some departments have a cooperative attitude.”

  “Like how somebody wiped out Fizz Nichols?”

  “Not us.”

  “You know it wasn’t an accident.”

  “Didn’t say it was. You want somebody to call about your little problem in Murphysville?”

  “Appreciate it.” They drank silently for a while.

  “If we help you out, we expect a little tit for tat.”

  “I understand. Who do you suppose got to Fizz?”

  “Who knows? Something’s up. The police commissioner calls me the other day and says any info I have on Rainbow or the killing of Junior Haney, I was to pass on to Ted Mackay.”

  “That’s political. No way for me to get involved.”

  “Don’t blame you,” Murdock said and signaled for another drink.

  Lyon caught the phone before the completion of the first ring. Bea, Rocco or Pasquale should be reporting in—perhaps Bea first. “Bea?” he asked.

  “Robin Thornburton, Mr. Wentworth. I’m Stacey’s daughter.”

  “I remember you, Robin, although it’s been a long time. I understand you’ve given up a promising career as an infantry platoon leader to become a sculptor?”

  “That’s the problem, Mr. Wentworth. As soon as I told my father I was turning down the Academy appointment, he’s had me jogging every morning and firing rifles every afternoon. It’s interfering with my work, and his, too.”

  “He’s a fine artist.”

  “I know he is. I tell him that he’s one of the best children’s illustrators working today.”

  “What does he say?”

  “That when World War III starts they’ll give him a star.”

  “I wonder if there’ll be enough time to pin it on.”

  “I don’t know what to do. He’s sending the outline of your book back.”

  “Has he had any bourbon?”

  “Booze?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No. He’s been on a diet for the past couple of weeks and hasn’t had a drop.”

  “I’m sending down a case tomorrow. When it arrives, find something to celebrate.”

  “I’ll try, Mr. Wentworth. As soon as it gets here we’ll celebrate, even if it’s the conquest of Carthage.”

  Lyon stared down at the incomplete manuscript of the children’s book on the desk before him. He had to complete it, for his and Bea’s sake, for Stacey’s sake, and yet recent events seemed to obscure thought and prevent further progress. He put his head on his arms over the typewriter and tried to think.

  “COME ON, WENTWORTH! We’re out busting our backs and you’re taking a nappy-wap.”

  Lyon looked up to see Bea and Rocco standing in the door. “I was thinking.”

  “You were sleeping.”

  He went into the kitchen and felt the percolator and found it still warm. He poured a cup of coffee, yelled over his shoulder. “Report, troops.”

  “Pat called from Rhode Island,” Rocco yelled into the kitchen. “He’s made a deal with the girls, and when we need them they’ll cooperate. If they do, Pat and Rhode Island drop all charges against them.”

  “Great.”

  “In addition, Captain Murdock tells me that Ted Mackay used clout to have police installations report all information concerning our investigation.”

  “Then Mackay knew all about our trace to the hotel, Warren and Fizz?”

  “It would seem so. Murdock’s also involved in a little excessive police work, and claims that there’s a group of senior police officers throughout the state who are acting as vigilantes. Something similar to certain South American countries and their death squads.”

  “Is there any tie-in?”

  “There could be. It’s not much of a step from roughing up criminals to the decision to rectify the political system.”

  Lyon loo
ked thoughtful. “Up to now everything’s pointed to Mackay. This is a new angle.”

  “Mackay might have wanted to know about the progress of the investigation out of curiosity.”

  “That’s some curiosity.”

  “I’ve got something,” Bea said. “I looked up Mackay’s Army record. During World War II he was in the OSS, served overseas, and made a parachute jump into occupied France to operate a clandestine radio.”

  “Where does that lead?”

  “His cover name during the operation was—”

  “Rainbow,” Lyon said.

  They stood in the living room like the couple in the Grant Wood painting, although in this instance the husband held a silver cocktail shaker and the wife’s eyes were out of focus.

  “Get the hell out of here!” Ted Mackay yelled at Rocco and Lyon.

  Wilma Mackay turned to her husband with a furtive gesture and plucked at his sleeve. “I thought you’d want to see them.”

  “You thought wrong. Chief, you have no authority in this city. And as for you, Lyon, are you some sort of police nut who likes to drag along after Herbert?”

  “I’m perfectly willing to get a warrant,” Rocco replied. “I think I have enough for several counts.”

  “Counts of what? Jaywalking?” There was a sanctimonious assurance in Mackay’s stance.

  “Perhaps everyone would like a drink,” Wilma said with a birdlike flutter.

  “Get one for yourself,” Mackay snapped at his wife. “And make sure you take a couple of quick shots while you’re out in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, Ted, I really don’—”

  “Go on!”

  Rocco waited while Wilma made her way from the room with the careful and methodical steps of the alcoholic.

  “Sit down and shut up.” Rocco’s tone was quiet, and perhaps that made it even more sinister.

  As Ted Mackay sank back in a chair, his eyes flicked across Rocco’s determined face. “You can’t talk to me like that.” His tone, for the first time, was unsure.

  “Yes, I can. Now listen and answer.” Rocco’s voice was still at a low register. “A young man named Junior Haney was stabbed to death in a bar. You had met Junior.”