Investigation

by Uhnak, Dorothy

  From the look on the younger woman’s face and from the triumphant gleam in the older woman’s eye, I figured the boy’s mother had just shelled out five bucks over the protests of the boy’s little wife.

  Nice little sidewalk family scene.

  Back to Fresh Meadows, where I talked to a couple of kids with dogs: big dogs, little dogs, common and uncommon dogs. No Bedlington terriers. I hung around; rang doorbells; watched the five-thirty-to-six-thirty crowd of dog owners. It was interesting: the nonchild dog owners had the more expensive breeds and were more anxious to talk about their pets. I got a pretty good education on the care, feeding and emotional problems of a variety of dogs. Not one of them looked like a sheep.

  I decided to skip the late-night dog walkers for a while, hoping to get lucky in daylight hours. After all, why risk scaring a dog-walking citizen to death in the dark? Or getting myself bitten or reported to the precinct as a strange or menacing character in an already jumpy neighborhood.

  I went to bed early after a long hot shower. It wasn’t so much the long hours that were exhausting; it was the long empty periods of waiting, of empty time in between active time. I set my alarm for five-thirty to make sure I’d get up and out in time for the first dog of the morning.

  I thought of Kitty. I hadn’t spoken to her since Sunday night and we had both been angry when I left her. I thought of finding Benjamin’s sheep-dog man; who would confirm what Benjamin had told me, who might also remember having seen Kitty in the car with Benjamin; who might also, if I was very lucky, just happen to have seen George Keeler in the area on the night the boys were murdered. Then I would type up his statement and put it into my own private files. Then I would go to see Kitty and tell her she was right; it was all over; all in the past; the hell with it; let it all die a natural death. I thought of Kitty. Of how beautiful she was; of how unbelievably beautiful she had been out at Montauk. I felt myself slipping into a light, pleasant semi-sleep and thought of Kitty. And saw her, getting out of my car, describing and recalling exactly how it was the night she’d gotten out of Benjamin’s car and walked around the garbage cans, and Benjamin came around and offered her his hand and then the Italian women came along.

  Kitty, getting out of my car recalling exactly how it was that night, the night her children were murdered.

  Which was a Wednesday night. Wednesday night.

  I sat up; switched the lamp on. Lit a cigarette.

  What the hell were the garbage cans doing set out along the edge of the sidewalk that night? Pickup for that neighborhood, according to the alternate-side-of-the-street-parking signs, was scheduled for Tuesday and Friday mornings. Which would mean, normally, that the janitors of the various buildings would set out the cans on Monday and Thursday nights.

  I checked through the day-by-day notes of my investigation: it was a Monday night that Kitty and I had driven around and around the Jackson Heights streets until she spotted the building where she’d met with Billy Weaver. Monday: therefore, the garbage cans were set out for pickup the next morning.

  Checked some more: I had met with Benjamin on a Thursday night. We waited together for Mrs. Deluca on a Thursday night and the garbage cans were set out for pickup on Friday morning.

  Which did not explain why—or if—there were in fact garbage cans set out along the edges of the sidewalk on the night the Keeler boys were murdered.

  Between six-fifteen and eight-forty-five the next morning, I encountered four German shepherds, one Doberman pinscher, two very old cocker spaniels, one fat beagle, one blond Labrador retriever, three mixed-breed mutts, one mouse-sized, surly, snappy Chihuahua. Not one of them could pass for a sheep; not one of the dog owners knew of any such dog in the neighborhood.

  Since I didn’t feel like ringing doorbells just yet, and, more importantly, since the matter of the garbage cans was bothering me, I took a ride over to the Queens County Department of Sanitation administration office and requested a check of their records relative to pickups in the Jackson Heights area for a three-week period: April 7 through April 26, 1975.

  Ever ready with a good cover story, I told the worried-looking supervisor that I was investigating a claim against the city by some irate motorist who claimed that a Department of Sanitation truck had clipped one of his fenders right off his car at the Jackson Heights location. I made it a good story: this same irate motorist was known to have instituted various minor lawsuits against other city agencies and private companies in the past few years. The D.A.’s office was building a frauds and larceny case against him, and this time we were pretty sure we had him.

  According to the records, there had been no change or variance of pickup days during the period checked. There hadn’t been any public or religious holidays in that period that could account for an alteration of pickup days.

  “Can you think of any other reason why a janitor might put out the cans, say, on a Wednesday night, for pickup on Friday morning?”

  He didn’t come up with anything better than I had: possibly the superintendent or janitor of the particular building was going to be away for a few days and set them out in advance. Possibly there was an unusual amount of garbage piling up and he wanted to get the cans away from the yard area of the building. Possibly there had been a changeover of staff in the building and through some misunderstanding—maybe the guy was used to Monday/Thursday pickups on his old job—he had put the cans out the wrong night

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  That would have to be checked out with the janitor of the Jackson Heights building. Later.

  I went back to Fresh Meadows and decided to try to change my luck by changing the location of my inquiries. I started now close to the Keeler apartment building, going with the possible assumption that the man with the sheep dog had been heading back toward his home when he met Benjamin, rather than away from it.

  Two dog owners, both on the original list, were home: one had a growling German shepherd; one had a mixed-breed cross between a beagle and a cocker spaniel.

  There was one more name on the list of dog owners residing in the three-story garden-apartment building immediately adjoining the Keeler apartment: Arnold Nadler; Apartment 3-B. Top floor.

  When I pushed the upstairs buzzer, there was a soft chiming sound and a woman’s voice called out, “Be with you in a minute.” She was as good as her word; about a minute later, a pleasant voice asked, from behind the locked door, “Who is it?”

  “Mrs. Nadler? I’m Detective Joe Peters, D.A.’s Squad. Could I see you for a minute?”

  She examined my i.d. through the opening of the chained door, then undid the chain and told me, “I’m not Mrs. Nadler. I’m Mrs. Arons. The Nadlers moved out almost two months ago.”

  She was a very pregnant, very beautiful, glowing young woman of about twenty-three. She did not have a dog. The Nadlers, who had moved to New Jersey, did have a dog, but she didn’t know what kind of dog it was. She’d never seen it.

  “Are you checking on dogs because of anything to do with those two poor little boys? Does it have anything to do with that?” She folded her arms uncomfortably over herself and said, “It’s an awful thing to say, and I probably shouldn’t say it or even think it, but because of that terrible tragedy, we got lucky. We got this apartment nearly two weeks earlier than we were supposed to.”

  When I expressed a cautious interest in that circumstance, Mrs. Arons invited me into her sunny, cheerful kitchen and offered me coffee, tea or skimmed milk. She checked her watch and told me, “I’m about to have my second glass of the day.” She wrinkled her nose. “I never, ever drink milk for myself; but, well, this isn’t for me. It’s for the baby.”

  I accepted a glass of milk with thanks; not for me; for my ulcer. “What do you mean you got this apartment two weeks early because of the Keeler murders?”

  “Well, not actually got the apartment. Got access to the apartment. We were to have taken over as of May first. The Nadlers’ house in New Jersey wasn’t quite finished. But then, I gues
s houses are never really all ready, even on the date they’re promised. Well, anyway, we really did want at least a few days to paint the apartment before moving in. You know, we had to be out of our old apartment by May first; if we had to wait until then to take over this apartment, it would have meant moving into an unpainted apartment; having to be unsettled and all while the painters were here. You know, a whole mess.”

  I agreed. “Sure, it’s much better to be able to have the painters in when the place is empty.”

  However, the Nadlers were not planning to vacate until April 30. But then on April 18 the development manager called the Aronses to report that the Nadlers were moving to New Jersey over that weekend; the apartment would be vacant as of Monday, April 21, so that the Aronses could arrange to get the place painted prior to moving in on May 1.

  “We were delighted, of course. They sure moved out in a hurry, the Nadlers. They left an awful lot of things behind: some books, a few clothes, pillows, a teapot, you know, small things. Anyway one day during the week, while we were having the place painted, Mrs. Nadler came by to collect her things. That poor woman. She was really frazzled. It hadn’t been her idea to move out like that, in such a hurry. And she told me she was going crazy with all the workmen all still busy all over her new house. She said that some of the plumbing had been hooked up wrong and she had had a flood in the playroom, and ... all kinds of minor catastrophes. She looked like she was ready to climb the walls. I felt so sorry for her.”

  “It hadn’t been her idea to move out in a hurry?”

  “No, it was Arnold. Her husband. Poor Mrs. Nadler. She said, ‘Arnold just wanted us to pack up and get out of here, after that awful thing that happened.’ ”

  “Meaning the murder of the Keeler children?”

  Mrs. Arons sipped some milk and nodded. “I only met Mr. Nadler once, the first time we saw the apartment, and he seemed like a very nervous kind of man. His wife said he was a very nervous-type man; so nervous, he had an ulcer.” Mrs. Arons clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “That’s okay, I’m not offended. After all, I do have an ulcer, so I know the type. Was there anything in particular, anything specific, about the Keeler case that seemed to bother Mr. Nadler, that you know of?”

  Mrs. Arons’ large dark eyes widened. “Something specific? Good grief, Mr. Peters, the whole terrible thing generally was bad enough. Who’d need specifics? He just said, according to his wife, that he wanted to get away from here, from all the crime and all. Right away.”

  Mrs. Arons found the Nadlers’ address in New Jersey; then she found a number for Mr. Nadler in Manhattan.

  “He’s a C.P.A., and this number, I think, is an answering service, because he moves around a lot. But if you call they’ll give you a number where you can reach him. Or they’ll have him call you back.”

  I took a few minutes to assure young Mrs. Arons that despite what had happened to the Keeler children and despite the wave of fear that seemed to permeate the area, Fresh Meadows was still one of the safest neighborhoods in the city.

  Which isn’t exactly saying much.

  I went to a phone booth and dialed Arnold Nadler’s answering service. After nine rings, the phone was answered by a bored, slurred voice which repeated the last four digits I had just dialed.

  “Do you have a number for Mr. Arnold Nadler?”

  “Ya got a pencil?”

  “Yes, I’ve got a pencil.”

  “Okay, ya can reach him at this number.”

  She mumbled a number which I had to ask her to repeat. Then I dialed said number.

  A switchboard operator identified the new number as belonging to “Heilweilder, Simkowitz, Kelly, Smith and Ito, Importers, good morning. Could you hold please.”

  I had to feed another dime to the telephone company before the cheerful voice got back to me; asked me to wait while she checked on Mr. Nadler’s whereabouts; then informed me he had left their office about two minutes ago; I’d just missed him. Call his answering service for his latest whereabouts.

  I went through the routine all over again; dialed; nine rings. Do-you-have-a-number-for-Arnold-Nadler? Do-you-have-a-pencil?

  He wasn’t at this number either, but a gravelly smoker’s voice told me that Mr. Nadler was en route; that this was his office on Lexington Avenue and Fifty-fourth Street and that he would be there for the rest of the afternoon, would I leave a message?

  No message.

  I decided the best way to contact Mr. Arnold Nadler was to drive into Manhattan and show up at his office, which is what I did.

  It was a very crummy-looking old building with long dark halls lined with crinkled-glass-topped doors bearing multi-inscriptions: Thomas and Thomas, Atty’s-at-Law, Hillard Mfg. Co., Inc.; Nu-Skin Facial Products, Benson Belt and Buckles; Arnold Nadler, C.P.A., Bernard Jackson, C.P.A.

  I tapped on the glass portion of the door with my knuckles, then walked into a small square room filled with desks put back to back and file cabinets side to side. There wasn’t much floor space showing. A plump, badly preserved woman with a cigarette stuck to her lip turned from a coat rack and raised her eyebrows at me.

  “Yeah, You’re looking for someone?”

  It was the gravelly telephone voice. Before I could answer her, the phone rang. She grabbed it, listened, put her hand over the mouthpiece and yelled toward an inner office, “Arnie, pick up. It’s Mr. Kaye.” She listened for a moment, then hung up and continued putting on her coat.

  “Some time for lunch, huh? Eleven-thirty, who’s hungry at eleven-thirty? You know how long this is gonna make my day?”

  The phone rang again. She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, then at me for sympathy, which I gave her by a slight shake of my head.

  “I’m not gonna talk to you, Sheldon, I’m going out to lunch now, so you’re talking on my time. Listen, you call me tonight at home and I’ll talk to you then.” She hung up and said to me, “He can’t talk to me from his own home, his wife objects!”

  I reached over and held the coat for her.

  “His own mother, he gotta call me on the sly, nice, huh?” She opened the inner door and called out, “You want me to go to lunch early, Arnold, so I’m going to lunch early!”

  She shook her head at me; undoubtedly a martyr in an uncaring world.

  About three minutes later, Arnold Nadler came from the inner office. Before either of us could speak, the phone rang. Nadler spoke in quick staccato bursts of words. “I told you already, Ralph, you got nothing to worry about. Will you listen to me? When they call you, you say, ‘Here’s the name of my C.P.A.’ Okay? All right? That’s what they expect you to say. And, Ralph, stop worrying; you paid to the penny. Believe me, you’re in good shape. I’m the one who faces them, not you. It’s no big deal. It’s everyday I.R.S. practice. Stop worrying already. Yeah, yeah, good-bye.”

  Arnold Nadler was a well-built, compact man in his early forties. He had a thick fringe of dark-red hair around the base of his head, and a long strand had been allowed to grow and was then pasted across the top of his skull to simulate a normal head of hair. He looked frazzled; harassed. He looked like a C.P.A. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up halfway; collar opened; necktie pulled down; eyeglasses slipping down his small nose. He shoved his pencil behind his ear, then offered me his hand for a quick, moist, hard grip.

  “Come into my office, we’ll talk there.”

  The inner office was more cluttered than the outer office. There were stacks of file folders everywhere: on chairs, on the floor, on the surface of the two back-to-back desks, under the desks. He lifted a stack of folders and ledgers from one of the chairs, put them on the floor, indicated the chair for me.

  “So, okay. You brought the books, didn’t you?” He looked at me carefully for the first time, leaned forward as I extended my gold shield. “You’re not Stanley Beck?”

  “Detective Joe Peters. Queens District Attorney’s Squad.”

  Nadler took a long deep breath which seemed to catch in his th
roat as he tried to exhale. He turned his head away and coughed; dug a handkerchief from a back pocket; dabbed at his mouth, then at the beads of sweat over his upper lip. He balled the handkerchief in his hands and made absolutely no effort to disguise his sudden nervousness and agitation.

  Very quietly and calmly, hoping to give him a chance to get a better grip on himself, I said, “It’s all right, Mr. Nadler. You’ve been sort of expecting me for a while now, haven’t you?”

  He nodded, then dabbed the damp handkerchief along his forehead. I offered him a cigarette; he didn’t smoke. Since he seemed to be having a little difficulty breathing in the close stale air, I didn’t light up, either.

  I leaned forward and said, “You were walking your dog that night, weren’t you?”

  Nadler stopped blotting his face and stared at me. “Walking my dog? That night? What walking my dog? Is this ... is this something about my dog?”

  Either we were thinking of the same event or we were thinking about two different events, in which case I was as confused as this guy was.

  “Mr. Nadler, what do you think this is about?”

  He was also smart enough to not volunteer anything unless and until asked. “I don’t know what this is about, Mr. ... Detective Peters. Tell me.”

  “You moved into your house in Somers almost two weeks before you had planned to, Mr. Nadler. You packed up and moved the weekend after the Keeler children were murdered.”

  He nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes, we did. Yes.”

  “It was a very sudden decision, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. Very sudden.”

  “Why, Mr. Nadler?”

  “Why? Why? I just wanted to get my family away from there, out to Somers. I just ... wanted to move away from Fresh Meadows, right away.”

  “Because you didn’t think it was safe there anymore?”