Investigation

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  I knew all this because when we spoke on the telephone Dr. Friedman told me his schedule and also that 2 P.M. was available to me, since there had been a cancellation.

  So far, Dr. Friedman was the last known person, besides Kitty Keeler, to have seen the Keeler boys alive on the night they were murdered.

  “Sit down, Detective Peters.” He checked his wristwatch against his desk clock. I was right on time.

  Dr. Friedman extended two cards. Each card was a precise, accurate record, containing every known medical fact from date of birth—to date of death—re Terence Thomas Keeler and George William Keeler.

  “I have photostated copies of my records on the Keeler boys for you, to save time. If you have any difficulty in understanding any of my notations, please let me know.”

  The neatly printed series of dates, facts and figures seemed clear enough. “I’ll look these over later and call you if there’s any question.”

  Dr. Friedman leaned over and handed me his card. “Please try to call between seven and eight A.M. Unless, of course, it is some sort of emergency.”

  “Right. Doctor, what time did Mrs. Keeler call you yesterday?”

  He glanced down at his daybook, then tapped his index finger at the information. “She called yesterday morning, at just about eight A.M.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “That George, the younger child, seemed to have all the symptoms of the measles. It was no surprise. The child had been exposed to the measles approximately two and a half weeks ago.” He nodded at his copies of the Keeler boys’ medical records. “At that time, Mrs. Keeler brought the children in for gamma-globulin shots. She had missed their last regular appointment, in September. They were scheduled to have measles shots on ...” Dr. Friedman held up a wait-a-minute finger, then opened his 1974 appointment book to a place marked by a paper clip. “Yes, on September twenty-fifth, but Mrs. Keeler canceled the appointment. She had to be out of town, with the boys. I cautioned her to see to it that she reschedule the appointment, but she didn’t. They should have been inoculated against the measles.” He added in a severe tone that defied argument, “There is no excuse whatever for a child to get the measles in this day and age.”

  “Did Mrs. Keeler miss appointments often?”

  “No, very rarely. In fact, that is the only one I can recall offhand. At any rate, Mrs. Keeler telephoned me on April first,” he checked this with his current appointment book, “and told me the boys had been exposed and she asked if it was too late for inoculation. I told her that it was, but to bring the boys in.” He glanced at his book again. “Yes, later that day, after five, they came for a shot of gamma globulin each.”

  “And what would that do?”

  “In the event the boys did come down with the measles, the gamma globulin would tend to lessen the duration of the illness. They would have a case of shorter duration. When Mrs. Keeler telephoned yesterday morning, she reported that George had a sore throat, high fever and was flushed. I scheduled him for a home visit.”

  “And at what time did you see him?”

  Dr. Friedman held up his hand to let me know that I’d interrupted him. “At about four-thirty yesterday, Mrs. Keeler telephoned again. George’s temperature had shot up to over a hundred and four and he had come out in a rash. I instructed her to give the child a child’s aspirin, which is what I had earlier instructed her. One every three hours for a high fever. And she was to give the child an alcohol rub and cool water to drink; cold cloth on his head. Keep him as comfortable and quiet as possible. As is usual with a high-fevered child, I made the Keeler apartment my first stop last night. I arrived at precisely seven-o-five P.M.”

  “And it was definitely the measles.”

  “Yes, of course. Mrs. Keeler seemed upset because she felt George was having a very bad case, despite the gamma globulin. I explained to her what I meant by a mild case. The symptoms aren’t mild; the duration of the serious symptoms are shortened by the cautionary shot. I told her to anticipate a difficult night, the child would be uncomfortable, but by morning the child would probably have a lowered temperature, continuing sore throat, possible upset stomach, but the worst would be over. I did caution her to keep close check on the child’s temperature.”

  “Through the night?”

  “Until such time that it remained below the hundred-and-two-degree point. After that I wouldn’t advise disturbing a sleeping child.”

  “And what about the other boy—Terry?”

  “I checked him, then told Mrs. Keeler there were several possibilities. One, that he would come down with the measles within hours, or a full day at most. Or that he might have a natural immunity and not come down with measles at all. Or that his initial exposure hadn’t been enough to cause the illness. But that, without a natural immunity, which is rare, he would probably come down with measles in about two weeks as a result of his exposure to George.”

  “Which would have been just about when George would have been up and around?”

  “Yes.”

  We stared at each other, but it was impossible to guess what Dr. Friedman was thinking. I dug a cigarette from my pocket and looked around for an ashtray.

  “I don’t permit smoking in my office. Or in my home.” He opened his top desk drawer, reached in, then scattered lollipops toward me. “They contain no sugar. Won’t rot the teeth or the lungs.” He studied me, then said quietly, “Your cough is very indicative, you know.”

  “My cough? What cough?”

  “Apparently it’s become so automatic that you’re not even aware of it.” He shook his head slightly and I suppressed a sudden need to cough. He checked his watch and desk clock, clasped his hands on his desk and asked, “Detective Peters, what else can I tell you?”

  “Dr. Friedman, to the best of your knowledge, what kind of a mother was Mrs. Keeler?”

  “Nonabusive, if that’s what you mean. The children were brought in to me regularly from the time they were born. Their physical and mental and emotional development has always been well within normal range. The older boy, Terry, was an extremely bright child: very precocious as an infant. Early walker, early talker, very fluent. The younger child, George, was somewhat slower by comparison, but that’s always a risky sort of judgment and I don’t encourage it. The boys were well-fed, well-clothed; they never exhibited any indication of being abused children, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  “How would you characterize Mrs. Keeler’s behavior last night? How did she seem to you?”

  Carefully, Dr. Friedman said, “That is a very subjective thing, you understand. Not knowing the young woman very well, it is a surface observation. I have found her to be a competent, level-headed young woman. Certainly not among those young mothers I classify as my ‘hysterics.’ She wasn’t overly alarmed by the illness. She exhibited what I would call proper concern. There was one thing, though.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, she did ask me if it was possible that George could travel in two or three days.”

  “Travel? Did she say to where?”

  “She said she’d been planning to go to Phoenix, Arizona, this coming Saturday and thought about taking the boys with her. Said something about ... didn’t I think the weather there might be beneficial to George. I told her what I’m sure she already knew. That it was unthinkable. Bearing in mind not only George’s illness, but Terry’s potential illness as well.”

  “What was her reaction to that? Did it seem to upset her?”

  “I think she regretted having asked me.”

  Dr. Friedman’s look of disapproval must have stopped many young mothers from asking obvious questions about as effectively as it stopped my lighting a cigarette.

  “How long did you stay at the Keelers’?”

  “I left at seven-thirty. Of course, I did make two phone calls prior to leaving. First, to check with my service and to alert them as to my next call in case of emergency. Second, to assure the parents of the next patient that I
was on my way.” He shrugged slightly and almost smiled. “With children as patients, emergencies pop up from one minute to the next. I like the parents to know I can be reached in short order.”

  There was a soft chiming sound; he glanced at his desk clock, then selected one of the cards from his desk blotter. “Mrs. Ellis. Ten minutes early.”

  I took the cue and stood up when he did, extended my hand and was surprised again by the firmness of his grip.

  He didn’t release my hand immediately. “This ... this whole thing, Detective Peters. Those two children ...” There was a totally unexpected look of deep, personal pain; the Keeler boys had been more than two index cards filled with precise, bloodless notations.

  “Dr. Friedman, I told you when I called earlier the circumstances under which these children’s bodies were found. Just between us, strictly off the record, one experienced man to another, what do you think might have happened to those boys?”

  His eyes never left my face as he shrugged and walked to the door leading to his outer office and waiting room. He held his hand on the doorknob for a moment, then said, “All kinds of terrible things happen in this world. I try to keep them alive and healthy. You try to find out who kills them. I don’t envy you your job. If I can be of any help, please don’t hesitate to call.” He added quickly, “Any morning, between seven and eight.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AS SOON AS SAM Catalano heard my voice on the phone, he started complaining. “I don’t know why the hell I’m stuck in the office, Joe. It’s my case as much as yours. Actually, I took the initial call and ...”

  “Sam? Sam. Is Captain Neary there or what?”

  In the silence, I pictured Sam lighting a cigarette with his flashy silver lighter; heard him exhale in a wounded sigh.

  “No, but he left a message for you, Joe. You’re to go over to 447 Woodhaven Boulevard and see a Patti MacDougal. She called the Keeler apartment about an hour ago. She’d heard about the murders on the radio and wanted to know what she should do about Kitty Keeler’s car.”

  “Kitty Keeler’s car?”

  “Yeah, Joe. Kitty loaned this girl her car yesterday. A white Porsche. How about that, Joe, a Porsche.”

  “That’s terrific, Sam. Now repeat the girl’s name and address so I can write it down.”

  Sam gave me the information, then launched into a recital of all the reasons why he shouldn’t be in the office, but should be out in the field. I wasn’t really listening; what I was thinking about was that the Porsche would have to be driven to the precinct. And then the girl would have to be driven to the squad office for a statement. A police officer should drive the Porsche, just in case it contained any evidence of any nature whatever. If I drove the Porsche, with the girl, to the precinct, then I would be stuck without my car.

  “Tell you what, Sam. Is there anyone else in the office to handle the phones?”

  I knew there was; I could hear talking and typing in the background.

  “Yeah, sure. Finn’s here, and Young and—”

  “Okay, Sam. Tell you what. Meet me at the girl’s apartment in about twenty minutes. Then you can drive the Porsche over to the 107th.”

  “Right, right, Joe.” Then, trying not to sound concerned, but sounding concerned, he said, “Hey, Joe. What about Captain Neary? Ya know, he did tell me to stay in the office and take the phones.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Sam. You’ll be back before he is. And I’ll handle it.” To make sure he’d show, I added, “A white Porsche, huh, Sam? Boy, that’s some car.”

  “And how. I’ll meet you there, then, Joe.”

  I should have just hung up at that point, but through force of habit I couldn’t resist. My voice went low, almost a whisper. “Hey, one more thing, Sam. Anyone around the office say anything about the narcotics thing?”

  “The narcotics thing?”

  “Jeez, Sam, not out loud, for Christ’s sake. Listen, just forget I said anything, all right? It may or may not pan out. But if it does, Sam, man. Imagine us walking into a two-million-dollar narcotics deal. Listen, listen, just forget what I told you, Sam. See you later, okay?”

  It would be interesting to see how long it took for that tidbit to bounce around.

  The house on Woodhaven Boulevard was one of those big old frame buildings that had, in its heyday, been the home of a large and prosperous family. Although the sixty-odd-year-old porch sagged a little, all in all the house was kept in good repair. Even the long dark hallways and narrow tall staircase held remnants of a respectable past: the shoulder-high oak panels were still beautiful and the plaster walls above had been recently given a fresh coat of light-green paint.

  The division into rooming units was somewhat awkward and the doors were unnumbered, but Patti MacDougal was expecting someone and as soon as the outside bell rang she came out and waited on the landing.

  The girl was a slob. Without the slightest indication of embarrassment or any attempt at apology, she waved me into the most incredibly filthy room I’ve seen in a very long time.

  Not just cluttered, but filthy. An assortment of dirty clothing was strewn about the room; dirty underwear was looped on doorknobs; dresses with layers of armhole stains were hung lopsidedly on hangers which had been balanced precariously on the hinges of doors. There was a small utility kitchen unit in one recessed wall. The small sink was filled with a collection of dishes, pots, cups, scrapings of various foods. There was a cold, dry, half-eaten old-looking piece of pizza, half wrapped in aluminum foil, on the top of the three-burner stove. Also, a package of brownish chopped meat, still in the supermarket wrappings, on a plate set on one of the burners. Two large black cockroaches were making forays under the foil to get at the pizza. They darted back and forth, back and forth.

  The girl politely offered me a choice of seats: the unmade, gray-sheet-covered daybed, the lumpy armchair or a hard wooden chair. I sat on the very edge of the wooden chair and watched some sort of tiny black bugs race across the back of the armchair. Patti noticed them, too, and slapped at them with the flat of her hand, then smiled at me as though we were partners in the constant battle against nature.

  She began to tell me the story of her life: how she had entered the country two years ago as a domestic from Glasgow, Scotland, with a guaranteed job in the household of an unsuspecting New Jersey doctor and his family. How she had spent most of her time eating, polishing her nails and entertaining the Avon Lady while ignoring any number of household catastrophes. She patted her hips, which seemed about to burst the overly stretched blue stretch slacks, then her cheeks, which were puffed out as though someone had put an air hose into her mouth and just kept pumping. Then she dug around through a collection of pictures and papers on her dresser top until she found what she was looking for. It was a photograph of a tall, slender smiling pretty girl who might have been a distant relative of the current Patti MacDougal, but it was, of course, a photograph of the previous Patti MacDougal, less some fifty pounds she had put on while enjoying the good life. Judging from the way her clothes fit her, she hadn’t gotten around to shopping for larger sizes.

  “How do you know Mrs. Keeler, Patti?”

  “Oh, I met her through my friend Marge Kennicutt. She came out a year before me, you know. I’ve been through so many different jobs, you see.” Patti grinned at her lack of ability to settle down. “And last November I was really out of it, if you take my meaning, and Marge let me move in with her for a bit, but she was newly married, and I was in the way and all, but so anyway. See, Marge got a call from Mrs. Keeler, that she was needed for a few days, or could she recommend a girl to stay with the boys—”

  “You’re the Scotch girl.”

  Patti gasped and pushed her lips out as though to whistle. “You mean you’ve heard of me! A policeman, and you’ve heard of me!”

  “Not officially, Patti, don’t worry about it.”

  She considered that for a moment or two, then ducked her head down and looked up at me from under her eyebrows an
d a lock of dark hair that had fallen over her face. “It’s Scots,” she told me. “Not Scotch. Scotch is something you drink; I’m not something you drink, you see?”

  It was a few seconds before I realized that Patti was being coy; that she was fluttering those stubby, blue-beaded mascaraed eyelashes for my benefit.

  All the time we were talking, Patti MacDougal was feeding herself one of the creamed varieties of canned soup. She walked around, one hand holding the handle of the greasy white enamel pot filled with the lumpy stuff, the other hand guiding a long-handled wooden spoon from the pot to her mouth. Before she resettled on the bulging, buggy armchair, she extended the pot toward me: wouldn’t I like some? Then she sat down and proceeded to lap up the thick soup with an obvious, total enjoyment.

  “You and Mrs. Keeler are on good terms, then, Patti? In spite of what happened last November?”

  The sight of Patti delicately biting at a solid glob of soup didn’t do my ulcer any good.

  “Oh, she’s that nice, really she is. No, she wasn’t angry with me.” Patti shrugged her shoulders and laughed girlishly. “It was bad of me, though, and I was that sorry.”

  From time to time, Patti baby-sat with the boys, but only for an evening or a morning. She admitted, with a grin, she wasn’t that trustworthy to baby-sit for longer periods of time.

  “How come you borrowed Mrs. Keeler’s car, Patti?”

  A few days ago, Patti had had an accident with her Volkswagen and she called Mrs. Keeler for help. Mrs. Keeler apparently knows any number of men who can handle any manner of catastrophes. On Mrs. Keeler’s advice, Patti called a Mr. Mogliano, and within half an hour a tow truck arrived and the battered VW was taken away for repairs, which, she had been assured, would cost her only a nominal fee.