by Parnell Hall
“Frankly, not much. At least in terms of the investigation. But it certainly is interesting. For one thing, this Jason Clairemont is entirely different in person than he is on film.”
“You noticed that?”
“How could you miss it? In person, Mr. Clairemont does not impress—one wonders how he could act at all. But on the screen he comes across very well.”
“It’s not him.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“A lot of the scenes in To Shoot the Tiger—the action scenes—it’s not Jason Clairemont you’re seeing, it’s a stunt double.”
“Yes, I understand,” Clark said.
A thought struck me. “I wonder ...”
“What?”
“Is it the To Shoot the Tiger—is it the same stunt man who’s working this film?”
Clark frowned. “I have no idea.”
“Couldn’t you find out?”
“I certainly could,” Clark said. “Though I don’t really see what difference it would make.”
Somehow I just knew he’d say that. It was in Clark’s nature to belittle the idea just because it was mine.
“All right,” Clark said. “That’s about all I learned about Jason Clairemont. Sidney Garfellow is another story. Have you seen his documentaries?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Pretty intense, aren’t they?”
“Sure. Look at the subject matter. Child pornography and AIDS. And the guy got an Oscar nomination. He’s bound to have some pretty hard-hitting stuff.”
“Which one?” Clark said.
“Huh?”
“Which film got the nomination?”
I frowned. “You know, I don’t remember. Does it matter?”
“No. I’d just like to know. Anyway, this gives me a good glimpse into Sidney’s character. The way he goes after the people in these films. The interviews. The questions that he asks. The things he gets them to say. Hard-hitting, yes, but very exploitive, if you know what I mean. Kind of a ruthless disregard for the people themselves.” Clark pointed to the TV screen where the picture was still frozen. “I mean, look at that. That’s a boy with AIDS. Do you know what he’s doing there? He’s telling how he got it. About being brutalized by a superintendent in his building. A man with AIDS still walking the streets today. Now, that may be good theater, but think how the people in that boy’s family feel, seeing this tape.
“Well, that tells me a great deal about our friend Sidney Garfellow. I mean, we’ve seen how far he’d go to make hay out of a tragedy, hiring this bodyguard to protect Jason Clairemont. But this goes beyond that. This shows a ruthless disregard for human feelings.”
Clark leaned back in his desk chair, laced his fingers together behind his head. “I have to tell you something,” he said. “I originally pooh-poohed the idea that Sidney Garfellow could be behind this himself, creating these crimes as a monstrous way to publicize his film. The idea seemed absurd.”
Clark took his hands from his head, tipped the chair back down. “After seeing his documentaries, I’m not sure. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
I took a breath. “Pardon me, Sergeant, but I thought you said there’s been a break in the case. Or did you just bring me down here to discuss these video tapes?”
“Actually, I’m waiting for Sergeant MacAullif,” Clark said. “No reason to go over the same ground twice.”
“You called him too?”
“As a matter of fact, I called him first. But he had to come from Bay Ridge, so you beat him here. But I’d expect him any moment.”
“Are we just gonna sit and wait?”
“Well, we can watch the tape.”
Clark picked up the remote control, started it playing again.
I sat down to watch.
The boy on the screen started moving again, going over the horrors of his ordeal.
It was strange watching it. I’d screened it before, way back when, before I began writing the script. And I’d had such a different opinion of Sidney Garfellow then. He’d been my salvation, my savior, a lifeline, a way out of my dead-end detective job. An introduction into the magical world of film.
Oh, sure, I’d been somewhat cynical about his documentaries then. Particularly while writing a karate movie with four hot babes. But I’d taken them at face value. He was, after all, an Oscar-nominated director. I guess the difference was that my cynicism then was to regard Sidney as a documentary film maker, perfectly competent as such, but over his head trying to tackle a feature. Now, seeing his documentaries with the gift of hindsight, all I could see him as was a manipulative, exploitive son of a bitch.
MacAullif showed up fifteen minutes later. He did not look happy. Of course he’d been summoned to Sergeant Clark’s office on a Saturday afternoon while on vacation, but even so. The man looked decidedly uncomfortable.
It didn’t take long to find out why.
“I’m filmin’ tomorrow,” MacAullif said. “Not tomorrow, I mean Monday. I’m filming Monday. They called last night to let me know.”
“Filming what?”
“Some street scene. I dunno. You wrote the damn movie. Scene one thirty-eight. Exterior. Street. Day. Rick cases crooks from across the street.”
I frowned. “What are you playing?”
“What do you think? A cop.”
“There’s no cop in that scene.”
“There is now. The cute-lookin’ AD calls me up, tells me I’m workin’ Monday, to report to makeup at six o’clock. Hell, I been comin’ in seven o’clock no problem, but six? Gimme a break. I ask her what I’m filmin’, she says scene one thirty-eight. I get off the phone, look it up, doesn’t tell me a thing. I call her back and she ain’t there. I get her two hours later, she tells me not to worry, there’s nothing in the script, Sidney will tell me what to do. Terrific. How the hell am I supposed to prepare, I don’t know what to do till I get there?”
“There’s nothing to prepare,” I said. “It’s not like there’s any lines or anything. You just show up, they’ll tell you where to go.”
“I’ll tell them where to go,” MacAullif said.
“You’re really going to be in the movie?” Sergeant Clark said.
“Whether I like it or not,” MacAullif said. “This morning I get a call from the costume lady wanting to know my size. I say what for? She says the uniform. Jesus Christ, you know the last time I wore a uniform?”
“Why didn’t you just tell her not to bother, you’d wear your own?” Clark said.
“It won’t fit, that’s why. It’s too damn tight. I had to tell her I’d call her back and then my wife whips out the tape measure. Jesus Christ, you’d have thought I’d robbed the fuckin’ bank. I mean, like an extra inch or two’s the crime of the century, you know?”
I made a T with my hands. “Excuse me,” I said. “Time out. I’ve been here for half an hour and I’m going nuts. What’s the break in the case?”
“Yeah,” MacAullif said. “What’s up? It better be important to come all the way down here. Big-time actor like me.”
“It’s important,” Clark said.
“Well, what the hell is it?”
“We ID’d the body.”
34.
THE PHOTOGRAPH SERGEANT CLARK HANDED me was an eight-by-ten black-and-white head shot of the dead man in the elevator.
Sergeant Clark said, “This is the picture we circulated for identification purposes. And this,” he said, handing me another photo, “is a picture of Peter Mertz of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Who is who our dead man turns out to be.”
MacAullif, peering over my shoulder, said, “Not a great likeness.”
MacAullif was right. The photograph showed a rather clean-cut young man in jacket and tie. Any resemblance to the bum in the elevator was entirely coincidental and not to be inferred.
“That may well be,” Clark said. “But it’s him, all right. They matched the fingerprints.”
“And the man is who?” I said.
“Peter Mert
z of Minneapolis, Minnesota.”
“So you said. I mean, who is Peter Mertz of Minneapolis, Minnesota?”
“That is indeed the question,” Clark said. “He’s forty-four years of age, attended public high school in Minneapolis, went to Northwestern, dropped out after one year. He got a job as a used-car salesman, largely through strings pulled by Father, couldn’t cut it, lasted less than two months. Left home later that year with avowed intention to make it in motion pictures.”
“Son of a bitch!” I said. “Is that true?”
“It is, according to his mother, who still lives in Minneapolis.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. I couldn’t believe it. Sergeant Clark’s prediction was coming true.
“Let’s see,” Clark said. “Left home with stated intention to make it in motion pictures. Headed for Hollywood. There’s no record of when he actually arrived, but he certainly got there because he joined the Screen Actors Guild in 1972. He worked on half-a-dozen pictures over the next year and a half, nothing big, in fact mostly extra work. After that he dropped out of sight, his SAG card lapsed and was never renewed.”
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“Immediately, I have no idea,” Clark said. “But eventually he wound up in New York.”
“And died on a movie set,” I said. “Jesus Christ, is there any connection to Sidney Garfellow?”
“None that I can determine.”
“Or to Jason Clairemont?”
“No. Though that’s much less likely. There’s a huge age difference. And Jason’s first picture was last year.”
“What about the rest of the cast and crew? Come on, don’t make us pry it out of you. What’s the connection?”
Clark spread his arms and shrugged. “So far, none.”
“But it must exist,” I said. “How’d you ID the guy?”
“As I said, through his picture. The picture was recognized.”
“By whom?”
“Miss Virginia Finewald.”
I frowned. “Who is she?”
“Miss Finewald is a concert violinist. Apparently very good. Has actually played Carnegie Hall.”
“She recognized him? From where?”
“Miss Finewald also does volunteer work. On the weekends. At Saint Catherine’s Church.”
I frowned again. “Wait a minute. What kind of volunteer work?”
“Serving soup.”
“Serving soup,” I said. My eyes widened. “Wait a minute. You mean in a soup kitchen?”
“That’s right.”
“She knew this guy from working in a soup kitchen?”
“Exactly.”
“He wasn’t one of the people working there?”
“No. He came for soup.”
“Son of a bitch,” I said. “You mean he was a bum.”
“I think Miss Finewald would take exception to that statement,” Clark said. “She was very careful to refer to her clientele as the homeless.”
A grin spread over my face. Son of a bitch. I didn’t even resent the time spent coming downtown or the bullshit he put me through. Sergeant Clark had made my day.
“So,” I said. “You lost your bet.”
Sergeant Clark’s eyes narrowed. “No such thing.”
“Sure you did. You owe Richard Rosenberg a dinner.”
“Don’t be silly,” Clark said. “The facts aren’t all in yet.”
“What facts? Rosenberg bet you the man was a bum, and he’s a bum.”
“That was not the bet.”
“I beg to differ. MacAullif, you were there. Wasn’t that the bet?”
MacAullif put up his hands. “Hey, don’t ask me to take sides against a fellow officer. If he says that wasn’t the bet, I suggest you let him explain.”
“Explain what?” I said. “Look, with all due apologies, Richard Rosenberg’s my boss. You think I’m not gonna tell him this?”
“By all means,” Clark said. “You can tell him whatever you want. But don’t tell him he won his bet.”
“Why not? The dead man’s a bum, exactly as he said.”
“That was not the bet.”
“Oh? And just what is your interpretation of the bet?”
“You’ll recall the terms were somewhat vague,” Clark said. “First was whether the crimes were related at all. Then it was whether this crime would shed any light on that crime. Or whether the identification of the dead man would shed any light on the other crime.”
“And how was it left?” I said.
“As a gentleman’s agreement. That we would know what we meant. That we would accept the outcome gracefully. That we wouldn’t hide behind technicalities or attempt to argue a lost cause.”
“Exactly what you’re doing,” I said.
“Not at all,” Clark said. “The victim is a bum, but that is not the bet. The bet is whether there is a reasonable connection between his murder and the other crimes. While I concede the possibility that there is not, I am not ready to accept it as fact. We don’t know who killed this man, or why. Until we do, there is no reason to assume the crime wasn’t related.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That seems unfair. Are you saying that if the murder of this bum goes unsolved, you don’t have to pay? That’s a conflict of interest. It’s like an incentive not to solve the case.”
“No, no, no,” Clark said. “In the first place, I expect the crime to be solved. But even if it weren’t, once the other crime is solved, the murder of the boom man—and that I do expect to solve—well, after that, this crime will either have fit in or not. And if I can’t fit it in, if I can find no link whatsoever between the two deaths, I will concede defeat and dinner’s on me.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re still pushing that. Look here, tell me something, will you?”
“What’s that?” Clark said.
“There’s a lot of euphemisms flying around here when you start defining the bet. Shed light. Link between the crimes. I don’t know whether this is your bet or not, but tell me this. Is it your contention that we have a serial killer here? Do you still believe the same person killed both men?”
Sergeant Clark looked at me in surprise.
“Yes, of course.”
35.
ALICE AND TOMMIE WERE HOME from the movies. She met me in the foyer when I came in the front door. I was carrying a red plastic bag.
“Video tapes?” Alice said.
“Yeah.”
“What did you get?”
“Down and Dirty, Straight Shooter, and To Shoot the Tiger. Plus a tape for Tommie.”
“Why?”
“It’s a two-for-one rental. You have to get four.”
“Don’t be dumb. Why did you rent those tapes?”
“Because Sergeant Clark did.”
“Uh-huh,” Alice said. “So what’s up? What’s his big news?”
“Oh. The guy’s a bum.”
“Sergeant Clark?”
“Don’t do that again, Alice. The bum in the warehouse. They ID’d him. And he was a bum.”
“So. You were right.”
“Yeah. But Sergeant Clark won’t admit it.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’d have to admit he was wrong.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You and me both. The fact is, the murdered man was a bum, just like everyone thought. He’s been ID’d as one of the homeless who used to get free meals at Saint Catherine’s Church. There’s no connection between him, Sidney Garfellow, Jason Clairemont, or anyone else on the picture.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Yes. Except ...”
“What?”
“He used to be an actor. Worked in the movies.”
“Oh? When?”
“Twenty years ago.”
“Oh. So what’s the connection?”
“That’s just it. I don’t see how there could be one.”
“Uh-huh. So what’s with the video tapes?”
>
“Sergeant Clark’s been screening them. I don’t know why, but he is. He says just to get a line on the parties involved. Maybe, maybe not. But if he’s gonna screen ’em, I wanna screen ’em too.”
“Why?”
“To see if there’s something I missed.”
“No. Why do you have to do it at all? I thought you’d decided it wasn’t your job to solve this crime.”
“Yeah, I know, Alice. But I’m right. About the bum in the warehouse. He’s wrong and I’m right. It may be stupid, but it means something to me.”
“It’s not stupid. It may be a little obsessive, but it’s not stupid.” Alice pointed to the video tapes. “So what do you hope to find?”
“How about this?” I said. I reached into the red plastic bag, pulled out a photograph, handed it to her. It was a copy of the eight-by-ten ID photo I’d got from Sergeant Clark. “This is the dead man. The bum. This is how he looked now.” I pulled out the other photo. “And this is how he looked then. As a young man. The truth is probably somewhere between the two.”
“Yeah? So?”
“So, the best of all possible worlds would be to find this man in these films.”
“That’s what you plan to do?”
“That’s right.”
She shook her head pityingly. “Well, you haven’t got a prayer. You can’t even recognize Richard Dreyfus in a film, you’re going to recognize some nondescript bum?”
“I’m going to try.”
“Don’t be dumb,” Alice said. She picked up the bag. “Come on. I’ll watch ’em with you.”
It took all day.
We watched Straight Shooter first. Which was depressing as hell. I got to see the boy again, the one with AIDS, the one Sergeant Clark had talked about. As usual, Clark was right—Sidney’s handling of the boy was brutal at best.
Down and Dirty was the same way. Sidney interviewed a teenaged prostitute, got her to cry on film. It was a telling moment. The girl started off tough and streetwise, talking about her job. Sidney turned the conversation onto her personal life, got her talking about her folks, asked her if they knew what she did, got her to break down.
Once again, brilliant theater, cruel as hell.
Sidney didn’t appear in the documentaries, by the way. You heard his voice, conducting the interviews. But off camera. You never saw him on camera because he was holding the camera—that was his method, to shoot the interview himself while conducting it.