“Listen to me, goddamnit. Where’d you get that paper?”
“What paper?”
“The paper you packed the heads in.”
“That’s the paper they were wrapped in.”
“The paper you found them in?”
“Yeah, for Chrissake, didn’t I just say so?”
“Okay, that’s all I wanted to know,” Konig shouts. “I’m sending you a page of newspaper—”
“What the hell for?”
“Never mind what the hell for. I’m telling you what for.”
“Don’t you start your goddamn shoutin’—”
“Shouting?” Konig’s voice booms into the speaker. “I’ll come down there myself and stuff this paper down your throat. Now you listen to me, goddamnit—”
“Now just a min—”
“Don’t interrupt me. Just shut your mouth and do exactly as I tell you.”
Long after he’d hung up, Konig continues to sit at his desk while the shadows of the dying afternoon creep all about him From downstairs in the street below the sound of children playing stickball and roller-skating wafts upward through his open windows. But Konig hears nothing. He is watching the phone again and waiting.
Now that the Novocaine has worn off, a dull pain has begun to gnaw at his jaw where the dentist drilled that morning. It is a pain, he well knows, that will mount steadily during the next few hours.
From out of the wide assortment of phials, tablets, and spansules in his lower drawer, he takes a Demerol, and another amyl nitrite to relieve the growing sense of constriction in his chest.
A short time later the mail boy walks in, dumps a banded packet of new mail on his desk, and walks out. Konig never stirs. In fact, he scarcely notices the boy’s coming or going. The mail simply sits there along with the rest of his business, untouched, unattended.
An hour later he is still sitting there. Carver has already poked her head in to say good night, just as she has done religiously each work night for the past twelve years. She warns him against staying too late and then goes herself.
Still he waits and watches his phone, all alone in the encroaching dusk of an April night in the city.
Shortly after seven o’clock he pushes his chair away from the desk and on stiff legs lurches to his feet. He has decided to go. Where, he doesn’t know. Certainly not home Not back there to all that. Incredibly, he’s hungry. It occurs to him that he hasn’t had a thing in his stomach but coffee and Scotch for the past three days.
Putting on his jacket he catches a glimpse of the packet of mail still on his desk bound with a thick rubber band. “Time for that tomorrow,” he mutters and starts out. But something there calls him back Some letter of great urgency His University mail Budgetary matters. A decision on his request for Federal grant monies. International correspondence Something—
With a sigh of resignation he removes the rubber band and flips disconsolately through a stack of envelopes and finds nothing of any great moment But in all that package of stem official-looking correspondence, each with its own glossy and portentous imprint, there is one small, strangely anonymous-looking envelope. It is of a pale-lilac color, suggesting female stationery. The name “Paul Konig” is printed on the face of it in a large, wavering, childlike hand, and it is postmarked Grand Central Station. There is no return address. Inside, he can feel something flat, heavy, metallic.
He studies it for a while, hefting it in his hand, turning it about, uncertain why he feels that sharp visceral spasm. His legs wobble beneath him and in the next moment he has to sit. For a long time he holds the little lilac envelope in his hand, eying it warily, reluctant to open it, like a man trying to evade some long-expected bad news. Then slowly he tears the seal.
The first thing that comes out of the envelope is a large brass key with a flat numbered head that reads “2384. Grand Central Station. Property of Baggage Clerk.”
Inside, on more lilac stationery, is a note put together from words cut out of newspapers and magazines, then glued to the paper. It reads “Friday. 12:15. $300,000. denominations no higher than $20. deposit locker number 2384. after depositing, leave at once. NO TRICKS PLEASE.”
It is not signed, but on the bottom is a small thumbprint pressed in what is unmistakably blood. Beneath that, the word “lolly,” as if to suggest it is her blood.
For a while he sits there holding the brass baggage key, cold and clammy to the touch, the crooked, wobbly little letters of the message swimming before his eyes, the thumbprint of his daughter like the bloody spoor of a small hurt animal.
His first instinct is to hide the letter. His next is to run. Get the hell out of there, lest Haggard blunder in and see the letter. And if not see the letter, then see him. See his face and divine everything. Then trouble. The detective would insist upon going himself. Detailing a squad of plain-clothes men. Staking out the baggage pickup. The hell with that. The hell with Haggard. No sir. Not with his daughter’s life. “No tricks please,” the message said, and there was something ominous, very scary about the quiet tone of civility. “No tricks please.” And they meant it. They even signed it with her blood. Goddamn animals. Freaks. Psychopaths. “No tricks please.” Right you are, Wally Meacham. Right you are. You’re the boss. We’ll do it your way.
But in the next moment he’s out the door of his office like a man with his clothing on fire. Streaking down the corridors to the still-lighted office of Lieutenant Francis Haggard.
»50«
“$299, 940—960—980—and $300,000 even.”
“In tens and twenties?”
“Yes, sir. Just as you instructed.”
FRIDAY, APRIL 19. 9:15 A.M.
CHEMICAL BANK, FIFTH AVENUE AND 42ND STREET.
“It was a bit thorny putting together that large a sum in such small denominations on such short notice, but we coped.” Mr. Whitney Graybard beams radiantly, like a small, eager puppy waiting to be patted. “We had the twenties here, but we had to send out to a half-dozen branch offices for the tens.”
“Sorry I put you to such trouble,” says Konig.
“Not at all, sir. That’s what we’re here for. Your lawyer did give us something of a start though, when he called yesterday.”
“It was a bit late, wasn’t it?”
“About 4:15. I was already gone, but fortunately he caught Peters, my assistant. Frankly, it is a great deal of cash to put together on such short notice.” Mr. Graybard leans back expansively in his large leather chair behind a commodious leather-topped desk unblemished by so much as a single scrap of paper. “Any special reason for it?”
“For what?”
“The small denominations,” Mr. Graybard retorts, and in that instant all the cheery affability of his former manner shifts and in its place is something rather cagey and skeptical. “Bit irregular, you know.”
“Oh, is it?” says Konig, trying to sound unruffled. What he needs now least of all is an inquisitive bank official. He well understands the man’s suspicions. Hadn’t he had the same difficulty with Barstow, for years the family attorney? Calling him that way late in the afternoon with a highly implausible story about a business venture he wanted to invest in for Lolly. Wanting $300,000 in cash drawn immediately against a trust fund that Ida’s family had established for Lolly. Until her twenty-fifth birthday, he was custodian of the fund and had her power of attorney.
Of course Barstow was curious. He knew nothing of Lolly’s present situation, and the more evasive Konig became, the more intractable grew the lawyer. Didn’t Lolly realize that by withdrawing such a sizable chunk of the fund prematurely she would be losing a considerable amount of income each year from accruing interest?
Yes, she realized that, Konig said, trying to remain calm. What kind of business was it she wanted to invest in? Had they had good solid investment counsel? Why hadn’t they consulted him? Why cash and why small denominations?
Of course the man balked. Wanted to put the thing off till he had a chance to look the whole matter
over. Of course, Barstow went on begrudgingly, Lolly did have the right to withdraw from the trust before her twenty-fifth birthday, but only with the consent of the custodian, and if there was good and sufficient reason for her doing so.
“Goddamnit, I wouldn’t be calling you and asking you for it if there wasn’t,” Konig, looking at the bloody thumbprint on his desk, bawled into the phone.
The violence of the outburst made Barstow even more wary. He started questioning Konig about his health. Then he asked, “How is Lolly, anyway?”
At that point Konig erupted. They shouted oaths and epithets back and forth at each other for ten minutes. Konig hectored and badgered the man, finally beating him to his knees. The attorney capitulated, making a sound of weariness and disgust. The money would be ready and waiting for him at the Chemical Bank the following morning, he said, and flung the phone down.
“Just a business venture I’m getting into with my daughter,” says Konig now, unable to meet the icy but cordial stare of Mr. Graybard, lolling regally behind his desk.
“Yes, Doctor, I know. You said that. But still, it is a bit unusual.”
“You mean the amount of money or the small denominations?”
“Both.”
“Well, possibly,” Konig replies. And beneath his small, crooked smile he’s beginning to smolder dangerously. “Still, that’s what we need.”
Mr. Graybard says not a word. Merely gazes at him with an odd smile. “Well,” he says, suddenly rising from his desk, as if to signal that the meeting is at an end, “if that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. I wish you and your daughter every good fortune in this new undertaking. You have something you can carry all this in, Doctor?” Mr. Graybard strides across the room to a long console on the far side of his office where the bills have been stacked in tall, neat piles. “Three hundred thousand in tens and twenties has quite a heft to it.” He chuckles. “I can let you have one or two of our own transferral cases.”
“Thank you. That won’t be necessary.” Konig, eager to go, waves the suggestion aside. “I’ve brought this.” He lifts to a nearby chair a battered old Gladstone that has been sitting by his feet.
Mr. Graybard’s distant inspection of the bag is cursory but thorough. “That ought to do splendidly,” he says. “Here, let me give you a hand.”
Swiftly and methodically the two men pass huge stacks of bills between them, cramming them into the throat of the bag till it’s fairly brimming. In a matter of moments the surface of the long console is cleared of bills and the clasps on the battered old Gladstone are snapped shut.
Graybard sees Konig to the door of his office. Standing there, he extends his hand. “If ever we can be of any further assistance, Doctor—”
“Thank you,” Konig mumbles, moving blindly past him. “You’ve been very kind.”
“Nevertheless, don’t hesitate.” With that oddly enigmatic smile still on his lips, Mr. Graybard watches the rumpled figure lurch across the marble floor of the bank to the street doors. “Would you like one of the guards to see you out, Doctor?” he cries after the receding figure.
“No, thank you,” Konig replies without looking back. “I have a patrol car waiting outside for me.”
»51«
“Deep-grooved, inverted V-shaped abrasions about the neck, caused by mattress ticking; old cut wounds on the front of ulnar aspect of left wrist; recently ingested food particles in the stomach, undigested, intact rice granules and green bean fragments; half-inch-long abrasion above the left eyebrow; ecchymosis, left inner surface of scalp overlying fracture area; fracture of skull, fresh.”
10:00 A.M. DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE,
CRIMINAL COURTS BUILDING, 100 CENTRE STREET.
“Those then, I take it, Dr. Konig, to the best of your knowledge, are the salient features of the Medical Examiner’s report?”
“That is correct.”
“And the gist then of the ME report, if I understand it correctly, has been that the injuries enumerated here were sustained when the body fell from where it had hung in the cell? That is, after Robinson was already dead?”
“Yes,” Konig replies briskly. “That is the main thrust of our report.” He gazes sharply about at the three men gathered there—Deputy Mayor Benjamin, Dr. Charles Carslin, District Attorney Clifford Binney.
The District Attorney, a tall, sallow man with a Jesuitical manner, reflects inwardly a moment. Then he turns to Carslin. “Now, Doctor, will you present those features of the second autopsy, conducted by you, that either differ from or are totally omitted from the Medical Examiner’s report?”
“I’d be happy to.” Carslin rises.
“No need to stand, Doctor.” Binney gestures him back to his seat. “We’re quite informal here.”
Looking somewhat miffed, Carslin fumbles back into his chair. Then settling his glasses firmly on the bridge of his nose, he begins to recite aloud from his report.
As Carslin drones on in his most official-sounding voice, Konig’s eyes drift upward and around the District Attorney’s musty, cluttered office with its shelves of books, tomes—torts, New York State law, criminal practice—lining each wall from floor to ceiling. There must be thousands of volumes crowding in upon the office, gathering dust, using up all the available air, making the atmosphere of the place close and oppressive.
“—two additional and separate head wounds not reported by the ME.” Carslin’s voice is strident with accusation. “An area of extensive hemorrhage over the back of the right hand that was not mentioned at all. Dark-red contusion over the right shinbone. And, instead of the superficial abrasion over the left eyebrow described in the ME report, I found a deep, gaping wound reaching to the surface of the skull bone. Also, the injury to the left side of the head was miserably understated. It was twice as large as the one described by the ME.” Carslin’s eyes seem glowing, almost triumphant, as he delivers this final coup de grace.
But the Chief Medical Examiner seems scarcely aware of what is going on around him. He sits listlessly in his chair, his expression vacant and uncaring. At a certain point his straying eyes collide with those of the Deputy Mayor, who is staring at him with a puzzled expression, as if he was waiting for the Chief—expecting him to—make some reply to Carslin’s report. But no reply seems forthcoming.
“Can we come to the crux of the matter, please, Dr Carslin?” Clifford Binney’s tones are calm and reasonable. “Did the prisoner, Robinson, die as a direct result of injuries inflicted upon him by others or were the injuries self-inflicted during the process of a suicide “by hanging?”
“I’m coming back to that now.” Carslin throws back his shoulders and straightens his glasses. “During the course of my examination I concluded that at least five separate injuries had been inflicted on the deceased prior to death, and in all probability were sustained during the course of a beating.”
Benjamin, fidgeting and twisting in his seat, gapes at Konig, waiting for him to reply. But Konig never stirs. The Deputy Mayor swings around to Carslin. “How can you say that? How can you sit there so smug and self-righteous—”
“Maury—” Binney’s voice rises just enough to subdue the Deputy Mayor.
“If you’d just let me finish”—Carslin glowers at Benjamin—“I’d be glad to tell you. Dr. Konig could tell you too.”
There’s a moment of awkwardness as all their gazes appear to converge upon Konig, still sitting there, eyes lowered, looking listless, disheveled, curiously small.
“In any event,” Carslin continues, “the wounds suggest that they were inflicted by a blunt weapon; that they were sufficient enough to have caused considerable pain and suffering. And, as a result of tissue studies I prepared right at the site, tissue studies that the ME had neglected to carry out, I think I can now say without any doubt that the wounds and contusions I found on Robinson were inflicted before he died. Not after, as the ME has reported. And that the most likely explanation of his death was that he was beaten to death or at least into
unconsciousness by the prison guards, who then strung him up in order to make his death appear to be a suicide.”
“Preposterous.” Benjamin leaps to his feet, red in the face, shouting, waving his hands. “Preposterous. I will not sit here and—”
“Maury—” snaps the District Attorney.
“—permit that man to impugn the reputation of an entire penal system just because—”
“Maury—” the District Attorney nearly shouts.
“No—I’m sorry, Cliff. I won’t sit here and—”
“Either you sit and keep quiet,” Binney says, jaw taut, voice ominously low, “or get out.”
There is something now in that quiet, Jesuitical manner that brings the Deputy Mayor up sharply, overwhelms and flusters him, so that he falls back to his seat, baffled and puffing.
“Now let me understand this.” Binney swivels back to face Carslin. “You’re suggesting that the deceased did not hang himself, but was strung up by guards after they’d beaten him senseless, so as to make it appear that he took his own life.”
“Don’t you see what he’s trying to do, Cliff?” Benjamin turns appealingly to the District Attorney. “He’s out to make a big name for himself by slandering the entire City Corrections Department.”
“Maury, if you don’t shut up,” Binney suddenly thunders, “I’m going to throw you the hell out of here.”
Benjamin is on the verge of shouting back. But thinking better of it, merely gnashes his teeth, folds his arms, and turns away.
Finally unnerved, Binney sighs, pushes his hand hectically through his hair, and turns to Konig. “What do you have to say about all this, Paul?”
Konig sits silent, unmoving, as if he had not heard the question directed at him.
“Paul?” Binney says once more. His voice is once again quiet, and infinitely patient.
Konig sits stonily, his eyes fixed on the floor.
“Paul, have you been following all this?”
“Yes,” Konig replies listlessly.
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