by Noel Hynd
He gave it several more second thoughts, then folded the file together. He thought of checking it out, but looked at Rose Horvath's empty desk. And he remembered how things in this room sometimes slipped into black holes, mysteriously and just all of a sudden.
So, angrily, he folded the file under his arm and stole it from Central Records. He climbed the back stairs to his office, freezing because someone had left a window open in the stairwell, probably to disperse the stench of an illicit-in-a-state-building cigarette. But he was also angry.
Angry that no one had painted him a full picture about his only executed arrestee until after the man was dead.
Angry at the governor and that little Ashton twerp.
Angry at Dr. Steinberg for never making reference to her own involvement in the case.
And angry that he had gone to Central Records seeking answers, and had come away instead with even more questions.
As he climbed the stairs, he expected to hear Gary's voice echoing. But he didn't.
Instead, the only message he thought he received came from the gold chain and pendant picked up from Jane Doe's belongings. He continued to carry it with him in his inside jacket pocket. He thought he sensed a cry for help from that. A plea for justice.
Or was he imagining that, too?
In truth, the only sounds he was certain about were those of his footsteps upon the cold concrete steps of the stairwell. And below him, in the distance, there was a new round of gunfire from the boys playing with automatic artillery in the basement.
It sounded like they were having a wonderful time. It was nice that someone was.
Chapter Eight
Captain Mallinson's office was on the second floor of the state gendarmerie, a plush corner suite with a big, dark desk, a five-line telephone, a couple of flags, and a wastebasket big enough to pass for an ice cream maker. Behind him there was a wall of awards and photographs and an enormous plate glass window, overlooking the snowy town square. Plate glass of that size and beauty just about screamed out for a brick.
Mallinson spent as much time in this office as possible. O'Hara visited it as rarely as he could. Today, the two time frames intersected.
Mallinson's eyes rose as O'Hara appeared at his door. “Talk to me, Frank. How is Jane Doe doing?”
“The case hasn't moved for two days,” O'Hara said. “I've been doing some digging. Missing persons. I have the forensic people working. But nothing of substance yet.”
Mallinson nodded very slightly. It was a nod that conveyed both understanding and disappointment.
O'Hara studied his captain. On some days, when a harsh light hit him, Mallinson looked thirty years older than he actually was. His face had acquired an entire road map of wrinkles, lines, and spidery veins over the last few years. This was one of those dreadful days when Mallinson looked like a man terminally tired of life itself, a guy who would-to realize his worst fears-just drop dead on the job some day.
“Any other angles to the case?” Mallinson asked.
“Gary Ledbetter.”
“What about him, aside from the fact that he's dead?”
“The two cases are linked,” O'Hara said. “Karen Stoner and Jane Doe. Like it or not, they're closely connected.”
The captain did not look pleased. He patted down his shirt pockets until he found one of his atrocious cheroots. As he lit it and smoke clouded around him, he said, “You're making me itchy, Frank. What the hell are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about the Ledbetter case. At the time I never knew half of what I know now.”
“Like what?”
“There were three shrink profiles, for one thing. Ben Ashton didn't like the first one, so he went out and got two more.”
“So what? Screw the shrink profiles.” Mallinson squinted through his own cancerous smoke. “Hey. You made the arrest and accumulated the key evidence. What are you complaining about?”
“I never completed the assembly of evidence,” O'Hara said. “I was pulled off the case.”
“I remember. You think I got amnesia? I pulled you off myself.”
“Why? Your decision? Or did someone want me removed from the investigation?”
Mallinson eased back in his swivel chair. For a moment it looked like there was anger on its way. Mallinson was known for such outbursts. But then he relaxed a notch, and when he spoke he sounded as if he were taking O'Hara into his confidence.
“It had nothing to do with you, Frank,” Mallinson said. “I was dealing with a bunch of suits in Concord.”
“The governor and his midget-mentality attorney general?”
“And all those who play golf with them,” the captain said. “The case became political. It shouldn't have, but it did. And we were better off sending it to Florida. Ashton didn't want the pressure of having to try it in court, and thank God for that. He probably would have screwed it up, then blamed us for giving him a faulty case. Next we'd have Gary walking after turning the Stoner girl into hamburger patties.”
“The problem is,” O'Hara said, “I don't think the case was as perfect as it seemed.”
Mallinson took a long drag on his smoke. The light seemed to brighten outside his window. And in the whiteness of it, he continued to look aged, almost sickly.
“Oh, come on,” Mallinson finally said.
“That's what I think, Captain.”
“No case still smells perfect when it finally heads for a courtroom. You know that. Anything with a judge and a jury and a couple of mouthpieces turns into a crapshoot. Where's the news there?”
O'Hara remained silent and let Mallinson talk.
“Were the charges stronger against Gary Ledbetter in Florida?” Mallinson asked. “Sure. That was another factor in his extradition.” Mallinson paused. “But, shit. You know what those assholes are like in Concord. Want to know the inside baseball? The suits took a look at the Ledbetter trial, figured it would put the State out two million bucks and buy us another million dollars worth of bad publicity during tourist season. So they shipped Gary to the 'Sunshine State' where they cook a killer every week. So Gary got fried and the State of New Hampshire speeded it along. So what? Why are we even discussing it?” Mallinson asked.
“Was it ever your impression that Gary Ledbetter was gay?” O'Hara asked.
“What?” Another pause of displeasure. “Frank! Talk to me! Where the hell are you getting this stuff?”
“Never mind. If Gary was gay, he didn't fit the profile of a serial chopper of women. That was observed by one of the shrinks at the time. It's a factor that should have been considered.”
“Aahhh,” Mallinson growled, giving a dismissive wave of his paw at the same time. “I just told you what I thought of the shrink profiles,” Mallinson answered.
“Do you think Gary had a boyfriend?” O'Hara asked.
“Sheesh! Why are you asking that?”
“Because I don't remember that we ever ran down that angle,” O'Hara said. “That's right. There was no need to.”
“It only occurred to me yesterday,” O'Hara said. “Key evidence came out of a storage unit. The storage unit was rented to an 'S. Clay.' Who was 'S. Clay'?”
“Maybe it's a pseudonym for 'S. Claus,’” Mallinson suggested. “Maybe you have something there, Frank. S. Claus: Santa Claus. I'll bet Gary and Santa spent many joyful winter nights buggering each other. My only question is which one of them used to get on top. My money's on Gary. I always thought Santa looked a little too sensitive.”
“This is serious stuff, Captain.”
“And you're going off on numbskull tangents, Frank. The 'S. Clay' at the rental units matched Gary's signature, if I recall,” Mallinson said. “And the attendant at the storage lockers identified Gary's photograph.”
“So we were told,” O'Hara said.
“'Told'? What the hell does that mean?” Mallinson snapped. “You did that part of the investigation.”
“Carl Reissman did that part,” O'Hara said. “Carl's dead. I can
't ask him, so I'm asking you.” Mallinson shrugged. “My memory is no better than yours. Or the official files. Go back and-”
“Certain parts of the official record have also been removed,” O'Hara said. “Any idea of what the 'suits in Concord,' as you call them, might have wanted to disappear?”
Mallinson appeared legitimately baffled on that point. “No idea,” he said. “I can only remind you what a shambles Central Records is. I doubt if there's a single case down there with files intact. If something's missing, I wouldn't attach much significance to it.”
O'Hara tried another angle. “How did Wilhelm Negri filter into the case?” he asked.
The captain's brow knitted into a studious scowl. “Who?”
“The publisher of the American. “
“None at all. Why would he?”
“He was leading the pack of jackels who wanted Gary tried outside the state,” O'Hara reminded. “And he was the governor's buddy, wasn't he?”
“Ah,” Mallinson scoffed, dismissing the point. “Sure. But who reads the editorials in that paper?”
O'Hara proceeded cautiously.
“Vincent Paloheima maintains that the same hand committed both murders,” O'Hara said. “Karen Stoner and Jane Doe.”
Mallinson stared at him as the notion sank in. “Want to run that past me again?” he asked.
“Whoever killed Karen Stoner killed Jane Doe,” O'Hara repeated. “That thought rather overtaxes the imagination, doesn't it?”
Three more seconds. Then a fourth. All were moments of tense silence. Then came the eruption.
“Paloheima's got his frigging head up his ass! “howled Mallinson. Like many men his age, when he was inordinately angry, his face turned crimson and a vein throbbed in his neck. “And not for the first time! Come on, Frank! What kind of crap is that, Stoner and Jane frigging Doe killed by the same perp! Ledbetter's frigging dead! Dead people don't kill live people! Doesn't anyone understand that?”
If volume could resurrect, Mallinson's fury was loud enough to arouse a few souls by itself.
“Come on!” Mallinson roared. “What are you trying to tell me? That a frigging ghost killed Jane Doe? Or that Gary Ledbetter didn't kill Karen Stoner?”
“Dr. Paloheima showed it to me,” O'Hara said evenly. “Computers. Strokes with a heavy blade. He makes a solid case.”
“Oh, this will be just so much fun in court, won't it?” Mallinson raged. “Want to arrest Gary Ledbetter again?”
“I'm not finding this funny, Captain.”
More fireworks: “Yeah? Me, neither!” Mallinson exploded. “A damned riot! That's what it is,” he said. “And you know as well as I do that Vincent Paloheima is an incompetent drunk! Ignore whatever he says. Go with your own boot leather, Frank. Ignore the nay-sayers. Gary Ledbetter was as guilty as Judas Iscariot! His prosecution was on the square. And when he got 'Old Sparky' in Florida, it was exactly what he deserved!”
O'Hara leaned back in his chair. “I'm glad you're convinced,” he said.
“You're not?”
For several seconds, O'Hara did not answer. Then, finally, “I don't know whether Gary was guilty or not. He may have been. But there was something wrong with his case.”
Mallinson looked at his subordinate with continuing annoyance. Then he snuffed his cheroot and a little wave of relaxation went across the room. Mallinson changed the subject, having expended his patience on Gary Ledbetter.
“How about the ID on the current Jane Doe?” the captain asked. “Have anything yet?”
“Nothing,” O'Hara answered. “I checked with your esteemed cohort Vincent Paloheima just this morning. Nothing from him, nothing yet from forensic.”
“If we only knew who Jane Doe was, at least we'd know how much we'd have to kick ass,” Mallinson said, calming. “Seems strange that a middle-class girl gets butchered in a cabin and no one misses her.”
O'Hara and Mallinson shared one conclusion from that aspect of the slaying. The victim was from out of state. If she was missing, she wasn't missing locally. So now they would have all of the United States and Canada to prowl for Missing Persons Reports. O'Hara had concluded by the woman's clothing that she had been American. Her dental work suggested the same.
Mallinson ran his hand across his eyes.
“You're going to need some luck in this case,” the captain concluded. “I hope you're planning to get out there in the frigging snow that you love so much and make some.”
“I can't wait,” O'Hara answered, standing and matching his superior's sarcasm point for point. He left the meeting with a strong feeling of dissatisfaction.
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. O'Hara spent time prowling through other recent murder cases in the state, as well as recent abductions of women. Again, nothing.
There was only one glimmer of promise. The much maligned Dr. Paloheima had arranged with a forensic sculptor to build a wax model of Jane Doe's head. The model was now complete.
O'Hara thus sent a computer art analyst to Dr. Paloheima's office to create a photo-simulated approximation of what the victim had looked like. This would take only a few hours. A picture which would hopefully resemble Jane Doe could be circulated to newspapers and police departments by the next morning.
After work, O'Hara drove to the town of Marlborough, where he remembered that Gary's storage locker had been located. It was a long shot that the same attendant would be there, much less that he would remember anything. And the long shot failed because the self-store unit had failed, too. It had gone out of business two years earlier, O'Hara discovered from the Marlborough town police. All that stood was a dilapidated brick shell, the aluminum roof partially caved in, and the windows filled in by concrete blocks. When O'Hara tried to trace the ownership, he found only a paper corporation from Boston that had long since faded into bankruptcy.
O'Hara returned home in the evening, his thoughts askew. He made himself dinner, put some Sinatra on the downstairs sound system, and at one point spent more than an hour staring straight ahead, trying to analyze the case before him. Meanwhile, the other Frank went through some Cole Porter.
The house, at those moments of silence between the other Frank's tracks, did its own singing. The usual creaks and moans. Once, O'Hara could have sworn he heard two footsteps upstairs. But he stayed away from alcohol for the evening and rejected the notion that there could be anyone in the house.
He did, however, keep his thirty-eight on his belt. A man never knew when he might want to fire a shot through a closet door.
“Where are you, Gary?” O'Hara finally said aloud sometime past ten P.M. “Here I am wondering whether you were railroaded, after all. And you're not talking to me anymore.”
O'Hara waited. No answer.
“What about this 'S. Clay'?” O'Hara asked aloud. “What was it you told me once before? S. Clay was you but it wasn't you?”
No response.
There was a distant creak in an upstairs room several seconds later. But then again, the furnace was on, guzzling oil and his policeman's modest paycheck-at almost a buck a gallon.
No booze, no Gary, no inspiration.
And no answers to any of the questions confronting him.
*
Carolyn Hart lay perfectly still in her bedroom, her spirit keenly attuned to her surroundings. Outside her window there was noise curling up from Oswell Street. A conversation of passing children. A woman's loud voice addressing a recalcitrant dog. Then silence. A breeze which almost seemed to bear whispers upon it. A few birds, then distant traffic.
A peaceful universe, at least as far as she could hear.
Carolyn's head moved slightly from where she lay on the bed. Her eyes travelled the room and settled upon its unmatched furnishings. Someone else's surroundings. Someone else's dresser. Someone else's life? Did it matter?
What mattered was what she was doing in this city. In Philadelphia. She reminded herself. There were old scores to settle, accounts to balance.
She
rose from the bed. Then she went to the window and peered down to the street. A boy in a blue blazer with a red backpack was walking home after school. It was a chilly afternoon at about four o'clock. Not the time of day when a young woman should be isolated within a musty house. She wanted to get out.
She passed before a mirror. She looked at the pale face that stared back at her. Carolyn had always been seen as a pretty girl, then a pretty young woman. But she had never been content with her own appearance. She had never considered herself pretty even if others had.
And now? Her beauty was gone, she told herself.
Her hands came to her face. She played with the skin on the underside of her chin. Once past twenty-five she had developed a very vain mannerism of constantly massaging the skin beneath her jaw in the desire to reduce it.
But now the focus of her attention wasn't that skin. She stepped away from the mirror. An overwhelming loneliness was upon her. She knew no one in this city and tried to regain her focus upon what she was doing here.
She went down to the first floor of the house and felt the need to get out. She left the house and went out to the street, followed an inclination and walked westward.
There was a small grocery store on the corner at Spruce and Twenty-second Streets. Carolyn went in, looked around, and left without buying anything. Then she went farther west until she came to Fitler Square at Twenty-fourth and Pine.
Fitler was a small but nice public park. A sensible city block, a tiny oasis of quiet. Carolyn took a position on a bench and stayed there for more than an hour, barely moving, saying nothing to anyone passing by.