by Dorien Grey
“You live here?”
“Yep. Right here.” He tapped the window with his squeegee. “I was the first buyer, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, then,” I said, playing a long shot, “maybe you know my friends—Gene Harriman and Kyle Rholfing?” Drawing two names out of a mental hat.
The man shook his head.
“Afraid not. The building was totally vacated and renovated before it went condo. All the former tenants were gone when I first found the place.”
Damn!
“Any idea who owned the place before you bought in?” I asked, hopefully.
“Nope.”
He tapped on the window again with the squeegee, using the edge this time; and another man, slightly younger, appeared and opened the casement, giving me only a cursory glance.
“Get me some more water, will you, Gregg?” the older man said, pouring the bucket’s contents carefully along the hedge and handing the now-empty bucket through the open window. His friend took it and disappeared into the depths of the apartment.
“Still only eight units?” I asked.
“Yeah—two to a floor. Say, if you’re interested in a condo, you might try Elsinore Condo Corp.—they’re the ones who did over this place, and they specialize in smaller, better buildings.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
I turned and walked back to the street just as the younger man reappeared at the window with a fresh bucket of water.
*
All the way to my office, I couldn’t get that building out of my mind. Eight apartments, seven deaths. Eight apartments, seven deaths. There was something there, other than the obvious implication that the eighth apartment belonged to the murderer. Rholfing had said something…some sort of warning signal I should be acting on, but wasn’t.
Rholfing had been stretching the truth somewhat when he said he’d had the “penthouse” apartment, unless you could consider the top floor of any building a penthouse. But there was something else…about the penthouse apartment…with a delightful boy named Herb-something.
That’s it! Rholfing had had a roommate! Which meant one of two things—either Herb-something was a prime suspect, or he could well be the next victim!
The case for him being the killer rested largely on my own prejudice—I could see how anyone living with Rholfing might develop homicidal instincts, but I knew that was just fanciful thinking on my part. The question was how in the hell could I track him down.
And if he were not the killer, and assuming he were blithely unaware of what was going on, what if the killer found him? Could he possibly be the hot number with the terrier Elers had mentioned?
No. Rholfing had lived on the top floor; Elers said the kid had lived on the ground floor.
Shit! I didn’t even have a last name to go on!
*
The first thing I did on getting to the office—after opening the window as wide as it would go—was to look up and call the Elsinore Condo Corp. If I could track down the building’s former owner…
I was right in thinking Elsinore Condo Corp. wouldn’t give me the information. It was getting too late in the day to try to make it to the Hall of Records to start a search through volume after volume of trust deeds and land titles, but I swore to get down there the minute they opened the next morning.
When I checked with my answering service and learned I’d had three calls from a Mr. Tim Jackson, my heart fell into my stomach with an almost audible splash. I dialed Tim’s office immediately, only to be told by whomever answered the phone that Tim was tied up with an autopsy. I hoped against hope I didn’t know on whom the autopsy was being performed.
But my stomach told me I did. I left my number then just sat down at my desk and stared out the window.
*
My watch indicated that more than an hour had passed when the phone rang, but my mind had been much too busy to notice. I felt like a greyhound at the dog races—no matter how fast I went, the rabbit went faster.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Dick? Tim. Sorry to took so long to get back to you, but I had to wait until I could get away from the building. It’s my turn for some bad news…”
“Herb something,” I said, flatly.
There was a pause on Tim’s end, then: “Herb Lopez. How in the hell did you know?”
“Tim,” I said, “don’t ask. I’ll fill you in later. Just give me the when and where.”
“They found him this morning, but he’s been dead at least three weeks—the body’s in pretty bad shape, as you can imagine in this weather. Found at home by his parole officer. It seems Lopez had served at least two terms for sex offenses.”
“Great.”
“Any idea how many more we can expect?” Tim asked.
“No, Tim, I don’t,” I answered.
Eight murders, eight apartments. But Rholfing and Lopez had been roommates. Maybe they’d all had roommates. Dozens of roommates, thousands of roommates, all just waiting for a hit from that magical, mystical amyl bottle. Fuck!
I tore my mind away from this cheery line of speculation and forced myself to concentrate on the issue immediately at hand.
“Do you have Lopez’s address and the name of his parole officer?” I asked.
“I knew you were going to ask,” Tim said, “so I wrote them down. Lopez lived at four-seventeen Bushnell; his parole officer’s name is Brown—Ray Brown.”
I wrote the information on a scratchpad.
“One more thing, Tim. You saw all the bodies, right?”
“Right.”
“Was any of them—and I’m thinking specifically of Lopez, Arthur Granger, or Gene Harriman—about five-ten, slender, very good-looking, medium-brown hair, ice-blue eyes?”
“Nnnnnno…huh-uh, none of them. Granger wasn’t bad looking but not what you’d call overly attractive—he had a black beard and brown eyes. Harriman comes closer, but his eyes were brown, too, as I recall, and he was only about five-six. Lopez’s a Latino: black hair, mustache, brown eyes, stocky. Who’s the guy you’re talking about?”
“You have two pretty fair choices,” I said. “Either the next victim, or the murderer.”
Tim gave a long, low half-whistle.
“Jesus.”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” I said. “Thanks, Tim. I’ll be talking to you soon. You’d best get back to work.”
He sighed. “Yeah. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too, Number-one,” I said as he hung up.
Now, I’m not all that much into stereotypes, but from what Elers had said about the shy kid with the ice-blue eyes, I had a hard time imagining him as a killer. Still, I’ve been around long enough to know that a lot of very sick minds live inside attractive, sometimes beautiful, heads. And whoever had rented the hotel room in which McDermott was killed had registered as “B. Kano,” the name of the kid’s dog, which was pretty strange.
Eight deaths, a shy kid with ice-blue eyes, and a terrier named Big Kano. It was a lot more than I’d had when I started. The question was, was it enough?
Chapter 9
Ed’s call some ten minutes after I arrived home caught me just as I was stepping into the shower. I left the water running while I answered the phone.
“How’s it going, Sam Spade?” he asked, and the sound of his voice helped relax me almost as much as the anticipated shower.
“Not to be believed, my lad, not to be believed,” I said.
I thought for a second about professional ethics and about my lifelong habit of not dragging other people into things that didn’t concern them. But, damn it, I felt like talking, and I felt like talking to Ed.
“Remember your offer to lend an ear any time I needed it? Well, I sure could use it now. And I think I mean it this time.”
“You’ve got it. Your place or mine?”
“How about mine, if you don’t mind? I’m just getting into the shower, so keep ringing the bell until I hear it.”
; “It might be about an hour or so before I can get there,” he said. “I’ve got a few things to do around here first.”
“That’s okay. I’ll probably still be in there.”
He laughed. “Okay. I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
“Ciao,” I said. I put the receiver back on its cradle and went directly to the shower.
*
The dog. It had something to do with the dog, right? Let’s say somebody killed the kid’s dog…poisoned it. Aha! The kid doesn’t know who did it, but he knows it was somebody in the building, and he vows to get even. A shy kid? Still waters run deep. So he systematically kills eight people.
Great story, but just a trifle far-fetched. Why wait almost four years? Does it really make any sense to think that someone would kill seven innocent men just to get an eighth who might—might!—have killed his dog?
Stranger things have happened, but it just wasn’t logical. There had to be something more to it.
Suppose it wasn’t the kid at all. Suppose the kid was out there somewhere right now, all innocent and shy and blue-eyed, and somebody’s ringing his doorbell right this minute with his hand in his pocket holding onto an amyl bottle…
Somebody was ringing my doorbell. Ed already? It seemed like only five minutes since I’d hung up the phone. I turned off the water, yelled, “Just a minute,” and grabbed for a towel. A glance at the clock on my dresser showed that either it was off by more than an hour or I’d lost all sense of time again. Knowing me and showers, I opted for the latter.
Semi-dry, I wrapped the towel around me and padded to the front door, opening it to find Ed leaning against the frame, a finger poised over the doorbell.
“Come on in,” I said.
He followed me into the living room.
“Too early for a drink?” I asked.
“It’s never too early,” he said, grinning.
“Good. Why don’t you do the honors while I finish drying off and get dressed?”
I did a quick blow-dry of my hair and slipped into a pair of jeans while Ed made the drinks. When I returned to the living room, he was sitting on the couch, looking through a month-old issue of Time.
“I see here that somebody’s shot President Lincoln,” he said as I walked over to join him. He set the magazine down, picked up my drink from the coffee table, and handed it to me. “It’s probably a little strong, but I figured you could use it.”
I tasted it. He was right.
I sat beside him and took a long swallow, draining nearly a third of the glass.
“That bad, huh?”
“That bad,” I agreed.
“Well, I brought both ears. Any time you’re ready…”
*
I told him everything, from the minute Rholfing first swished into my office to the minute he—Ed—rang the doorbell. When I’d finished, he just sat there quietly, looking at me. Finally, he got up, took our now-empty glasses, and went to make us another drink.
“That,” he said from the kitchen, “is some story. Where do you intend to go from here?”
“Tomorrow, to the Hall of Records,” I said, talking a little louder so he could hear me. “Then to whomever owned the building. From there on, it’s anybody’s guess.”
He returned and handed me my refilled glass.
“What about the police? Don’t you suppose they’ll solve the whole thing eventually?”
I took a sip and set the drink on the coffee table.
“I sincerely doubt it,” I said. “Do you realize how many unsolved murders take place in this town every year, even when the police are really trying to solve the case? With gay murders, let’s be charitable and just say their usual enthusiasm in pursuing justice is somewhat tainted with homophobia.
“And even if they were doing their very best, they think it’s some homophobic serial killer randomly murdering faggots, which makes the odds of finding him astronomical.
“I don’t think he’s a homophobe, and I don’t think the killings are random. I’m sure he knows exactly what he’s doing…I just don’t know why. You can’t find what you’re not looking for, and from everything I can gather, the police are not looking for a link between the victims. At least, they’re not looking hard enough.”
“You could always tell them,” Ed said logically.
“Yes, I could. But why should I? At least right now. If I were to tell them what I know, who’s to say they’d follow up on it properly? And it’s almost guaranteed they’d do everything in their considerable power to see to it I got off the case and stayed off. I’d probably be arrested for obstructing justice for not identifying myself after I found Rholfing, and just as probably lose my license.
“I’ve had a couple of professional encounters with the police before. I know how they operate. No, I’d rather go the whole distance on my own. Then we’ll see what happens.”
We sat in silence for a moment.
“You know,” I said, “one of the frustrations in all this is not having a single real suspect—except possibly the shy kid with the terrier. If this were a detective novel or a movie, there’d be suspects coming out of the woodwork.”
“What about me?” Ed asked. “Wouldn’t I qualify?”
I shrugged.
“Oh, sure. You. For having a phone number. Or Gary Miller, for being tired of being cheated on. Or Martin Bell, out of unrequited love for Arthur Granger. Open the phone book and pick out a name. But did anyone I’ve talked to know all eight men—and know them when they lived in that particular building? Did you?”
Ed shook his head.
“I see what you mean,” he said.
I shrugged again.
“The prosecution rests. But thanks for the offer.”
Ed reached over and put his closest hand on my leg, easily, casually.
“Well, if I can’t be a suspect, is there anything I can do to help?”
“You’re doing it,” I said. “At the risk of sounding maudlin, it means a lot just to be able to talk to someone.”
“You can always talk to Tim,” he said, half-teasing.
“You know what I mean,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t.
“I know,” he said quietly then quickly took a long drink.
We sat in embarrassed silence for a minute or so, and I found my mind, as always, wandering back to the case.
“If only I knew…” I said aloud.
Ed looked at me.
“Knew what?”
“The kid with the ice-blue eyes. Who the hell is he? Where is he? Is he the murderer, or the next victim?”
“You’ll find out.”
“I hope so,” I said. “I dread the thought of getting another phone call from Tim. I’ve got to find that kid, one way or another. I’d hate to think somebody else might die because I goofed somehow.”
Ed set his drink down, reached over and took me by both shoulders, turning me toward him.
“Now, look,” he said, his voice and face serious, “I don’t know you well enough yet to butt into your affairs. But I know damn well you can’t blame yourself for Rholfing’s death, or for anything concerned with this case. You’re doing the best you can, and I know you’ll have all the answers soon. Just stay detached. They’ll come. I know it.”
“Thanks, coach,” I said, grinning sheepishly. “I really appreciate it, and that’s no bullshit.”
Ed grinned and released me.
“That’s the boy,” he said. “Oh,” he added, “I nearly forgot—not to change the subject, which might be a good idea anyway—but I’ve got to make a trip to Chicago for a couple of days. We’ve just opened our new facility at O’Hare, and there are some bugs with the VIP lounge. They’ve been after me to come out there and take care of things, and I’ve been putting it off.”
“When are you going?” I asked, surprised by my negative gut reaction to his news. I didn’t want him to go, damn it.
Oh, come on, Hardesty, you’re not fifteen anymore.
He took ano
ther sip before answering.
“Probably day after tomorrow, unless I can put it off again—which I doubt. I’ll only have to be gone a couple of days, though. Should be back before the weekend. Think you can get along without me?”
“As Henry Higgins says, ‘I’ve grown accustomed to your face,’” I said, “but I’ll try to survive.”
We both laughed, but I had the definite impression neither of us found it all that funny.
*
I was at the Hall of Records when the door opened the next morning. If you’re ever looking for a fun way to spend the better part of a day, a trip to the Hall of Records isn’t it. How anyone ever finds anything there is a wonder.
It was well after lunchtime, a fact attested to by the periodic rumbling of my stomach echoing through the vast chambers, when I finally found what I was looking for.
The property at 2012 Hutchins Avenue was purchased on June 16 three years previously by the Elsinore Condo Corp. from one Klaus Schmidt, 9312 Roosmeer Street, this city.
I returned the 50-pound volume to the surly-looking guy behind the desk who’d had his beady prison-warden eyes on me every minute lest I mark, mar, write upon, fold, staple, or otherwise mutilate the sacred documents. He obviously kept in shape toting the ponderous volumes back and forth from the stacks, but he had the vaguely haunted look of one who sensed microfilming was on the horizon, and that his job was in imminent—that is, within ten or fifteen years—danger.
A check of the phone directory in the library’s main hall showed no listing for a Klaus Schmidt. Damn!
My stomach was growling and muttering—I knew I should have had breakfast before I left the apartment—but it would just have to wait. The address 9312 Roosmeer was much more important right now, because 9312 Roosmeer would hopefully hold Klaus Schmidt, who would, in turn, hold the final key to eight deaths.
*
Ninety-three-twelve Roosmeer was a construction site. Girders and beams and cranes cast long shadows over what remained of a quiet residential neighborhood of solid, stolid, early-part-of-the-century working-class homes. It’s a good thing I’ve always hated to see a grown man cry, because I considered that possibility for a split second.