“Not his problem. His downfall. He prosecuted a wealthy, high-profile physician charged with the murder of a prostitute. The doctor was one of the most charitable in the community and had an impeccable reputation.
“However, the woman was found dead in her apartment, and the police discovered the doctor had been her last client. While there was no physical evidence linking the doctor to her death, Homer used the circumstances to build a case. He pulled every prosecutorial trick he'd learned, and the doctor got life in prison. But before he could be transferred to the state pen, he hanged himself in his jail cell. The note he left apologized to his wife and children and said he couldn't live with the disgrace. It also proclaimed his innocence. A few months later, another prostitute was murdered. When the police broke the case, the man they arrested confessed to killing both women, plus others in different states. Since he'd kept souvenirs, there was no doubt of his guilt.
“Homer went off the deep end. His conscience wouldn't leave him alone. He'd convicted an innocent man in spite of a lack of evidence—a man whose contributions to society were substantial. He took to the bottle and resigned his job not long after. His co-workers protected his reputation, hoping he'd come back. But he chose to hide and drink.
“Eventually, he woke up and put the bottle away. That's when he filed to become a public defender. And he's been doing it ever since—successfully, I might add.”
“He still drinks,” I said. “Not the sign of a reformed alcoholic.”
“Does he?” Aaron smiled. “Did you taste his scotch? If you had, you might have discovered it was tea. It's a trick he uses. I know because he used it on me. When I challenged him, he admitted his subterfuge. Said it fits with what people expect of him. If you had accepted his invitation for a drink, he'd have poured cheap scotch for you. He keeps it for his clients.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, he fooled me.”
“Anyway, a few days ago he called and told me what he was looking for. I recommended you. End of report. Any questions?”
I mulled over the remarkable tale Aaron had spun. Had I gotten so gullible I could be taken in that easily? Apparently, the answer was yes, since it had happened with such ease. “It's a great story, but other than changing my perception of him, how does it apply? The autopsy on his son showed heavy drinking, something that argues against his being murdered. How am I supposed to prove something where there is no hint of truth?”
“You're the investigator, not I,” Aaron said. “But remember the story I told you. Homer proved a man guilty with no evidence whatsoever, except for alleged opportunity. If he could do that with hard work and perseverance, who knows what you might do with the same? I trust the instincts and the objectivity of Homer Whittaker. If he says his son was murdered, I trust his intuition until someone proves him wrong.”
Again, I went quiet, thinking through everything I now knew. Aaron Dunniker was one of the most respected lawyers in South Florida. If he trusted and believed in Whittaker, common sense said I should too. I nodded. “Okay, I'm his investigator. Thanks, Aaron.”
“Great. Now get out of here. I have work to do.”
Chapter 8
I left Aaron's office with a new outlook. It was time to get serious about digging into Jack Whittaker's death. There were only three possibilities—accident, suicide, or murder. That meant there was a thirty-three percent chance that his father was right.
I spent the next two days with my face glued to my computer monitor and my right hand hovering over a yellow legal pad. My printer spat out sheet after sheet. I dug into every party attendee the police had identified, took notes, and printed out interesting postings. I wanted to know as much as I could determine before I faced them, one by one. Somewhere in that list, or in someone they knew, there might be a killer. If so, I wanted him, wanted him bad.
I'd love to tell you the answer popped off the screen and landed in my lap. But that would be stretching the truth. Actually, that would be a flagrant lie. What I found were a lot of normal young people who appeared to be looking for a good time. No clue as to which one might be a killer. The good news was my legal pad held a list of addresses and phone numbers. The bad news was the list was so long it would take weeks to interview all of them.
Staring at them, I reminded myself I didn't need to be doing this. I was retired. Besides, it was cutting into my time on the links, time my game desperately needed. I should chuck the whole idea. I began to wish I'd never talked with Aaron Dunniker. Didn't matter, though. I had talked to him, and I felt obligated to help Whittaker. There are times my scruples are the albatross in my personal Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Of course, I played the part of the mariner cast adrift with water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink. To say I felt sorry for myself would be another understatement. I wished I hadn't answered the phone when Dolly Bloomer called.
Before I decided to try to drown my sorrows the phone rang. I checked the caller ID and saw a number I didn't recognize, even though it somehow looked familiar. Six fifteen. Probably a telemarketer.
“Hello. Jonathan Boykin here. Who's calling?”
“Uh, sir, this is Joe Jenkins.”
Jenkins? I racked my brain. Familiar, but I couldn't pin it down.
He must have sensed my vacillation because he added, “I'm the Security Guard at Mr. Torginson's. We talked near the spot where Mr. Whittaker died.”
“Ah, yes,” I said. “Of course, I remember you, Joe.” It was a small lie, but why let him know how bad my memory was? “What can I do for you?”
“Well, uh, you said I could ask around. I, uh, I found someone who might can help you. She saw everything.”
That popped me up to sitting at attention. “Wonderful. How'd you do it?” I didn't want to dig for his information too fast, or he'd know how lost I was. “Sounds like you did what the cops couldn't do.”
“Nothing special, sir. I just asked a few people, and—”
“Listen, Joe,” I said. “Can we meet somewhere. I'm excited to find out what you've learned, but it's, uh,” he had me stuttering, “not something we should talk on the phone. Are you on duty? I could come by—”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Boykin. “I'd never freelance while working. That wouldn't be fair to Security Best, my employer. Where do you want to meet? I just got off work. I'm on my own time.”
“Great. Is there a bar in the area? We could talk over a beer.”
“I don't drink, Mr. Boykin. There's a coffee shop down the street. I could meet you there.”
I frowned. Coffee? At this time of the day? What was the world coming to? “Sure. Sounds great. Give me the address.”
He did, and we agreed to meet in thirty minutes.
~*~
Forty-five minutes later, I sat across from Jenkins, a caramel latte in front of me. The coffee shop was just that. The shame was it was beside Mozelle's Bar and Grill. A beer and a burger would have been perfect.
“So, Joe, what do you have?”
“Before I tell you, sir, can I give you some background?”
Oh, boy. Now I had to listen to this young whippersnapper convince me what a great investigator he was. Why not? If he had what he said he had, he was ahead of me. “Of course, Joe. My time is your time.”
“A few months ago when I was leaving work, I saw a lady pushing one of those carts you use for groceries—not the store carts, the ones you can buy. She appeared to be having a bad time with it, so I went over and offered to help. Her name is Mrs. Rosenstein and she lives in the building next to the one I work in. She's ninety-four but pretty spry, considering. Anyway, I helped her so she invited me in. We had coffee and cookies. She makes really good chocolate chip cookies. Since then, I've kept an eye on her and assisted when I could.”
“That's nice, Joe. But does this lead somewhere?” I tried not to show my impatience, but I didn't need a Boy Scout story.
“Yes, sir. You see, Mrs. Rosenstein has insomnia and spends much of her time on the balcony. Hers is directly across from Mr.
Torginson's. She watches the ships passing and the other ocean nightlife between napping in a lounger. She was there the night Mr. Whittaker died.”
“And she saw it?” I know, never interrupt a man spinning a story, but I couldn't help myself.
“Yes, sir. She saw Mr. Whittaker get pushed over the railing.”
I was stunned. I'd struck the mother lode. An eyewitness. Detective Sanders would have to listen and activate the case. Mr. Whittaker would write me a check, and I could go back to my golf game. “Joe, that's fabulous. All we have to do is go to the police—”
“Excuse me, sir. She won't do that. She talked to me, and she's agreed to meet with you. But that's all.”
“Why?”
“I'll let her explain that. It's...well, it's kinda personal.”
Whoosh. I felt the air rushing out of me. However, I still had an eyewitness. I'd have to stay involved a bit longer. No problem. “When can I see her?”
He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow. I'll have to set it up.”
I was agitated. Ninety-four years old. She could die tonight. “Let's do it tonight and get it over with.”
“Sorry,” Joe said. “It's almost time for her TV shows. The only thing she lets interrupt them is a phone call from her daughter, who lives in Philadelphia and calls every night. I've been there, sir. I could never ask her to let us come up tonight.”
I resigned myself to waiting until the next day. “Okay. What time?”
“Well, I'm on the nine to six shift again. How about six-fifteen. I'll meet you at the entry to her building.”
I stuck out my hand. “You're on. Set it up, let me know, and I'll be there. Joe, this is fantastic. If Mrs. Rosenstein is all you say, you have broken a case and given a father closure.”
Chapter 9
At six thirty, Joe and I stopped in front of a door on the eleventh floor of the sister building of Torginson's. Joe pushed the bell, and the door swung inward.
“Come in, Joey. This must be the Mr. Boykin you told me about. Come in, Mr. Boykin. I've looked forward to meeting you.”
I might have done a bit of a double-take. This couldn't be the lady Joe had described. While her age showed, she was perfectly coifed, well-dressed, great posture, and her diction was excellent. Also, her words were obviously intended to put me at ease.
“Thank you, ma'am,” I said. Joe and I walked into a well-furnished living room. I saw a coffee table with a plate of cookies, a coffee pot, and three dessert plates.
“Oh, you baked cookies,” Joe said, smiling. “I hoped you would. I told Jonathan you make the best cookies of any I've ever eaten.”
I noted his slipping in my first name. That bit of ego play on his part was fine with me. “Yes, Mrs. Rosenstein, Joe speaks very highly of you.”
“Oh, posh. I'm just an old woman who enjoys the company of a young man, and Joey is such a perfect gentleman.” She gave him a hug, and then she made a quick switch in attitude. “Have a seat, please. Joey says you're helping him with the murder that took place in the next building.”
I tried not to grin as Joey ducked his head. “Yes, ma'am. Did you see it?”
“Yes. From my balcony, I can see directly across to the one opposite me. Two men came out and pushed a third man over. The victim appeared to be semi-conscious, at best. It was a clear case of murder.”
As I opened my mouth to pursue her words, she switched back to her hostess mode. “Coffee? And please help yourself to the cookies. I made them today.”
Back off, Jonathan, I thought. Don't want to spook her. “That would be nice.” As she poured, I took a cookie and bit into it. Joe didn't lie. It was delicious.
After pouring, stirring, nibbling, and sipping, I said, “You were telling me about the murder. You are probably the only witness. Can I ask the police to stop by and interview you?
She started. “Oh, no, Mr. Boykin. I cannot talk to them.”
It was my time to be startled. “But with your testimony, they can catch the guilty parties. I hope you'll change your mind.”
She shook her head and looked at Joe. “You didn't tell him?”
“No, ma'am. I thought it was too personal for me to share.”
She took a deep breath and set her cup down. “Mr. Boykin, I am a Holocaust survivor, and that left deep scars, both physical and emotional. I am also a bit of a news junkie. The TV is tuned to a news channel all day. The reports I see on police behavior today remind me of my youth in Germany. I cannot talk to them. In my heart I know I should, but I simply cannot do it. I hope you'll understand.”
“But the killers will stay free without you,” I said in desperation. “We owe it to society to—”
“Joey, turn on my computer, please. I gather you also didn't tell Mr. Boykin what I have for him.”
“No, ma'am. I wanted it to be your surprise.” He crossed to a desktop computer and booted it up. Then he pulled two straight back chairs from the kitchen and placed them on either side of her desk chair.
She walked to the computer and sat. “Mr. Boykin, please sit here.” She indicated the chair on her right. “And Joey, you on my left.”
Joe followed directions, a knowing grin on his face.
What else could I do, but follow his example and her instruction? I sat.
When the computer was up and running, she slipped a DVD into the drive. “As Joey knows, I was a photojournalist in my earlier life. I am seldom out of reaching distance of my camera case.” She indicated a bag that sat on a nearby table. “That night was no exception. I heard a commotion and took out my equipment. This DVD holds the results.”
She clicked on the DVD start icon and a whirring sounded. A picture began forming on her screen. At first it was dark and blurry, but soon it cleared. Three people appeared to struggle on a balcony. One was clearly the victim while the other two attempted to subdue him. The two gained control and lifted the third onto the railing, then pushed. The picture followed as he fell until darkness enveloped him.
I stared, hardly believing what I'd just seen. Photographic evidence of the crime. My luck couldn't possibly be this good. “Mrs. Rosenstein. You simply must show this to the police. It's everything they need to take those two out of circulation forever.”
“Sorry. I have already explained that. However, if I have your word as a gentleman that you will not reveal the source, I will give you this DVD. You may do with it as you please.”
“But—”
“Before you answer, let's go back and slow the action. I suspect you missed something, as I did that night and the first few times I viewed it.” She started the DVD rolling again. At the moment, the two killers pushed, she slowed the action and clicked through frame by frame.
The victim was struggling, reaching out, trying to grab onto anything to save himself. His hand swiped across the face of one of his attackers, pulling his Halloween mask aside. It was only an instant before he tumbled backward taking the camera view with him. She backed the DVD up, and stopped at the critical point. “Do you recognize him?”
The picture was clear. “You're a fantastic photographer, Mrs. Rosenstein. Yes, I know who he is. His name is Torginson. He lives there.”
“And that, my dear young man, is why I don't need to talk to the police. With this DVD, they'll have everything they need. Are you willing to meet my demands?”
I had just eagled the eighteenth hole. “Of course. Your secret will be safe with me.”
~*~
I went into my case wrap up mode for the next few days. First, I made several copies of the DVD and stashed them around. I learned the hard way never to trust an original only, or even a couple of duplicates. Next I contacted Detective Sanders and set up an appointment to speak with her. I wanted to get her moving toward building a case against Torginson before I briefed Whittaker.
The meeting with her went from decent, to bad, to worse, and then took a turn downward.
“Mr. Boykin, why are you bothering me with this again? Do you have something worthwhi
le, or is this another fishing expedition?”
We were meeting in a coffee shop—yeah, another one. I longed for the day when cops and their snitches met in bars. Not that I was a snitch, but I was tired of coffee shops. I slid the DVD across the table to her. “Did you bring your laptop?”
She glared at me.
“Watch it,” I said. “It's quite enlightening.”
“I'll bet,” she said as she booted up her computer and then slipped the DVD in.
I moved around behind her and watched as the scene on Torginson's balcony played out. When the screen blackened around Whittaker's falling body, she turned on me. “Where did you get this?”
“Sorry. Can't tell you that. I made a promise.”
“Then what good do you think it is? All I saw was two guys in costume pushing a third over a balcony. Could be anywhere, anytime. Could be staged. Doesn't prove a thing.”
“Not as you saw it. But, let's look again. You might have missed something.” I ran it a second time, in a slower mode. When I reached the critical scene, I stopped it. “Now, do you see anything?”
She stared at the screen. “I know that man. I've seen him before.”
“Yes, I'm sure you have. And that, my dear Det, is your killer. I'm sure you can handle it from here.”
“Where did you get this? You can't just waltz in here, hand me a DVD with this kind of evidence, and walk away.”
“Wanna bet?” I rose, stepped out of the booth, and turned to face her. “If I don't see news of an arrest within the next couple of weeks, I'll pay another visit to the captain.” I walked out while she was still sputtering.
I dreaded my next visit more, even though it met the mission of my hiring. I called Dolly Bloomer and set up a meeting with Mr. Whittaker.
After the obligatory nasty/nice greeting by Ms. Cleavage Boomer—nasty to me, nice in front of Mr. Whittaker—I was face-to-face with him. “You were right. Your son was murdered. I have the proof and have turned it over to the police. There should be an arrest soon.”
Happy Homicides 4: Fall Into Crime: Includes Happy Homicides 3: Summertime Crimes Page 42