“Like so many career military men, he had a hard time adjusting to civilian life. He’s never married, and he was rootless. He tried playing semipro ball, but he was nearly forty and couldn’t get into the starting lineup. After warming the bench for a couple of years, he gave up and gravitated back here.”
“Lucky for us he did,” said Laning. “He’s one of the best models we’ve ever had, if not the best.”
Thirty-Four
In his afternoon Forensic Analysis class, TJ raised a question that had been bothering him.
“If a murder weapon with no fingerprints or other trace evidence belongs to someone who has a grudge against the victim, but other people had easy access to it, how do you determine which one used it?”
“An excellent question,” replied Professor Morales, who knew why TJ was asking it. “The same three basic criteria—motive, means, and opportunity—apply whether you’re dealing with a single suspect or several. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this is a premeditated killing, and five people have reasons to want the victim dead.” He chalked the numbers from one to five vertically on the blackboard, and made three columns, one for each criterion.
“Let’s look at motive first. What are things that would motivate someone to kill?” he asked the class. Several hands went up. Jealousy was the number one choice, followed by deception, rivalry, greed, and revenge.
Morales filled in each row under the motive column. “Suspect number one is someone whose spouse or lover was caught cheating: jealousy. Suspect number two has been swindled out of money or property: deception. Suspect number three wants to eliminate someone standing in the way: rivalry. Suspect number four has something to gain by the victim’s death: greed. Suspect number five has a score to settle: revenge.” He turned to the class. “Which is the hardest to determine?”
A young woman’s hand went up. “I think five is the hardest. The other four could well be known to the killer’s family and friends, but five might depend on finding out something that only the killer knows.”
“Yes, a deep-seated personal grievance is the least evident motive,” said Morales. “It often doesn’t come out until the suspect is confronted with witness testimony or overwhelming forensic evidence, or decides to confess out of remorse. But sometimes others besides the killer do know the motive, even if they don’t remember until it’s acted on. For example, a boy was bullied in school, then meets up with his tormenter years later, and the buried hatred surfaces. His schoolmates knew how much he hated the bully, but it’s not until the bully’s murdered that they make the connection.”
TJ was thinking that there were plenty of people with well-known grievances against Benton, from those like Breinin whose animosity went back decades to those he’d offended recently. His talent for making enemies was legendary, even more widely acknowledged than his artistic ability.
Morales returned to the blackboard and checked all five rows under the means column. “In our hypothetical case, according to Mr. Fitzgerald, all the suspects had access to the murder weapon. The owner is top of the list, but just because someone owns a lethal weapon doesn’t mean he or she is the one who used it. If you found your mother’s kitchen knife sticking out of your next-door neighbor’s back, you wouldn’t assume your mom killed him, would you?” That got chuckles from the students, one of whom remarked, “If it was my mom, you would.”
“With blades and blunt instruments,” continued Morales, “when we have the weapon we look for fingerprints, which Mr. Fitzgerald says are not present. It was either wiped clean, or gloves were worn. However, there may be blood on the killer’s skin or clothes, and with ligatures, some fiber may be transferred, but you have to get these traces right away. With firearms there’s usually gunshot residue, but again, if the killer has time to clean up and dispose of the clothing before being tested, the physical evidence is lost.”
Morales addressed the third column. “Since all of our five potential suspects have both the motive and the means, the deciding factor is opportunity. You need to establish, not who could have done it, but who couldn’t have. In other words, which of the suspects would not have been in a position to kill the victim.
“As everyone knows, the term for this type of vindication is alibi, a Latin word meaning ‘elsewhere.’ A true alibi proves conclusively that an accused person was in another place when the crime was committed. A false alibi is a smoke screen, intended to cover the criminal’s tracks or to deflect the investigation away from a suspect who has something else to hide. If the suspect actually was elsewhere, but was committing a different crime or cheating on a spouse, he or she might invent a story to conceal that information.”
“So,” Morales concluded, “in the absence of a clear motive and singular means, the investigator’s job is to eliminate those who have valid alibis, not always a straightforward process. Corroborating witnesses, especially family members, may lie, willingly or under duress, to protect a suspect, and outsiders can be unreliable—they think they saw him at the races that afternoon at three, when the victim was shot, but they aren’t sure. They pass over him in a lineup and pick out a plainclothes police officer. Then we have to find out where he was when the murder was committed.” That prompted another laugh from the class.
“Who can tell me what’s likely to be an ironclad alibi? Give me some examples.”
“You were already in jail,” suggested one student, “or in the hospital, someplace you couldn’t leave on your own.”
“You were out of the country,” said another, “and your passport stamps prove it.”
“You were in another city, and people who know you saw you there,” was another possibility.
“You could even be near the crime scene, but with plenty of neutral witnesses who could swear you were with them,” offered TJ. “Like everybody in this class knows I’m here now, and it happens that somebody’s getting strangled in the next room. Even if I hated the victim, and maybe even threatened him, there’s no way I could be killing him.”
“Opportunity obviously depends on proximity,” noted Morales, “but as Mr. Fitzgerald points out, it isn’t necessarily decisive. In other words, being nearby doesn’t make you guilty, but it does call your alibi into question unless you can muster reliable corroboration. Clearly the other three examples—incarceration or hospitalization from Miss Bertram, and being overseas, across the border or out of town from Mr. Ramsey and Mr. Gordon—are easier to verify. Frankly, I’d say being behind bars is as good as it gets.”
* * *
As the classroom emptied, Morales motioned to TJ to stay behind. “A word, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said offhandedly, keeping his tone impersonal. Once they were alone, however, he reverted to familiar mode and pulled up a chair next to his desk for TJ.
“Well, Juanito, did our discussion contribute anything to your private investigation?”
“Sí, Tío Hector. Dad got an update from Inspector Kaminsky this morning, and he says they eliminated two of the suspects for reasons the class mentioned.”
He told Morales about going under cover with Ellen to Max’s Kansas City in an effort to identify the woman who publicly threatened to kill Benton.
“I found out who she is, but when I called Midtown North to report it, they were already on to her. They sent cops to the Chelsea Hotel—that’s where she lives—to pick her up yesterday, but she wasn’t there. When they contacted the Tenth Precinct to ask the beat cops to be on the lookout for her, they were told she’d been busted for soliciting and sent to the Women’s House of Detention. She’s been there awaiting arraignment since last Monday, two days before Benton was killed. So she has Carol Bertram’s number one ironclad alibi.”
Morales nodded in agreement. “¡Ella lo hace! But you said two suspects were cleared. Who’s the other one?”
“Lewis Mumford, the former president of the American Academy. Benton was a member, and two years ago
they had a very public falling-out. They disagreed about America’s involvement in Vietnam—Mumford denounced it, Benton protested, almost got into a fistfight with him and then resigned when Mumford wouldn’t back down. But a year or so later, without consulting Mumford, the academy voted him back in. Mumford went apeshit and stormed out himself. There was going to be a reinstatement ceremony for Benton this week, so that could have been the spark that set Mumford off.”
“Okay, vengeance was his motive,” agreed Morales, “but I take it there was a lack of means or opportunity?”
“Both,” said TJ. “It’s the alibi Jim Gordon said, being in another city. Last Wednesday at six p.m. Mumford was giving an anti-war speech at a conference in Chicago. He has two hundred eyewitnesses.”
“So you’re left with Breinin, the mad Russian, and your gay friend Bill, both of whom fit the profile of suspect number five on our list.” Morales gestured at the blackboard. “We know they each had a motive and the means—access to the murder weapon—but did they have the opportunity?”
“According to what Kaminsky told Dad, Breinin’s alibi is shaky. Not only is the timing of his whereabouts way off, but when the cops questioned the people who were in the League around the right time on Wednesday, a couple of folks on their way upstairs from the cafeteria said they saw a man in a red velvet jacket in the stairwell at around five. Breinin wears a jacket like that all the time; it’s practically his uniform. Unfortunately they can’t make a positive ID ’cause they didn’t see the guy’s face. He had on a wide-brimmed hat and a scarf, and he was already below them, going down fast, when they came out on the third-floor landing.”
“Jake’s certainly sharing a lot of inside information,” observed Morales. “Isn’t he curious why Fitz would be so interested in this case? It’s pretty unusual for a deputy chief to monitor a precinct investigation, even of a homicide.”
“Oh, he knows why,” said TJ. “Dad told him right up front that his son was a student at the school where it happened, so it’s only to be expected that he’d want to be kept informed.”
Morales aimed his foxiest grin at TJ. “And do Jake and Fitz know that you’re on the case, too?”
“I don’t think Dad let on to the inspector, but he and Mom know I went searching for Solanas and succeeded in identifying her. I told them all about it. They were kinda pleased that I took the initiative. Mom says you’re teaching me well.”
“Nita was my star pupil,” said Morales, “and her outstanding detective work is still making me proud. Thanks to her, and other Spanish-speaking officers from the community, the Twenty-Third has one of the department’s best clearance rates.”
Morales stood, and TJ followed him to the door. “Nita’s always called herself the precinct’s chief snoop,” he remarked as they headed out, “but her deductive skills are much more subtle than that, certainly as good as mine ever were, if not better. As I’ve told her, if I’m El Zorro, she’s La Raposa, the vixen—a worthy successor to this old fox, whose hunting days are over.”
Thirty-Five
“Solanas was a wild-goose chase,” said TJ as he walked Ellen home from the subway. Now it was dark when she left the Automat at half past five, and his protective instinct was working overtime. Despite her objections, he had insisted on meeting her when she emerged from the Union Square station and escorting her to the Up ’n’ Down every weekday except Thursday, when they would travel home from the League together.
He also committed to accompanying her and Michele to and from The Bitter End on Tuesday nights, homework be damned. He’d just have to spend lunch hours in the John Jay library instead of the cafeteria and sneak study time at Brother’s on the weekends. At least he’d be getting a crash course in folk music appreciation, with no homework, quizzes, or term papers.
Today was the first day of their new routine, and Ellen was still not convinced that she needed such coddling.
“Really, I can take care of myself,” she had argued, but TJ was adamant.
“Union Square is full of unsavory characters. It’s not safe after dark,” he pointed out, and she couldn’t disagree. There had been several recent muggings and purse-snatchings, though it wouldn’t be long before the cold weather would deter the prowling juvenile delinquents and drive most of the vagrants to shelters.
“You know how much I love you,” he said as he took her in his arms. “I’d never forgive myself if something bad happened to you. For my sake, let me keep an eye on you, just to be on the safe side.”
It was such a reasonable request, so heartfelt, how could she refuse?
Walking hand in hand with Ellen through the square, TJ told her that Solanas was in jail when Benton was killed.
“We were discussing alibis in class today,” he said, “and Tío Hector calls that an ironclad one. Obviously you can’t be out there killing someone if you’re already locked up.”
Ellen’s frustration was just as obvious. “So now what? With her eliminated, Bill is still the prime suspect, goddammit.” She kicked at an empty soda can, sending it skidding across the pavement and under a bench.
Suddenly TJ remembered the first time they had walked through the square together, when they passed the anti-war rally.
“I wonder,” he said, half to himself, “yes, maybe I could find out from them.”
“Find out what? From who? What are you talking about?”
“From the group that had the speaker here, back in September. They were burning draft cards, remember? What was it called? The guy was standing in front of a banner with the name on it.” He stood still and closed his eyes, trying to recall the scene. Observation, the first rule of detective work. That’s what Mom always says. He saw the scene in his mind’s eye—the shouting man in fatigues, the bullhorn raised to his mouth, his figure framed against the banner—and the words came into focus.
“Got it! Vietnam Veterans Against the War! Maybe they’re the ones who helped Bill get to Canada, or maybe Mexico. He may have been long gone when Benton was killed. If I can find out when he left it could clear him.”
Ellen agreed, and her mood brightened. “You’re right. The last time anyone at the League saw him was a week before, when they had the fight in the cafeteria. Suppose he went straight to that group and told them he’d burned his draft card and wanted out. How long would it take to arrange that? Probably not long, I bet they do it every day. Oh, TJ, what a great idea!” She gave him a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“I have to figure out how to find them. Maybe the guys that hang around at Brother’s know.” The candy store was a mecca for the neighborhood youths, many of them registered for the draft and not all eager to serve. “Let me take you home and I’ll run over there now, see what I can find out.”
* * *
Brother’s Candy & Grocery, an all-night convenience store at 542 East Fourteenth Street, served as Stuyvesant Town’s unofficial social center. Having worked there on weekends since high school, TJ was on a first-name basis with many of the regulars. When he arrived, not long after six, the place was packed with people picking up a quart of milk or a dozen eggs on the way home from work, kids killing time between school and dinner, flirting teenagers, and elderly widows with no one to cook for buying sandwiches and gossiping. Even on a chilly November evening, guys smoking and shooting the breeze spilled onto the sidewalk outside both the Fourteenth Street and Avenue B entrances. Lately the war had become topic number one among the draft-age men who gathered there nightly.
TJ recognized two young men in conversation. One he knew was a veteran, but was he in favor of the war, or had he turned against it?
He approached them with a friendly greeting. “Hiya, guys. What’s goin’ on, Dick?” He saluted the vet. “How ya doin’, Ralph?”
“Jesus Christ, TJ,” said Ralph, “can’t you stay away from this place? Ain’t it your day off?”
“Yeah, I’m just pickin
g up some stuff for my mom. Don’t let me interrupt.”
“No sweat, man. I was about to start lecturing Dickie boy over here.” He hooked his thumb at his pal. “He’s headed to Nam. I was gettin’ ready to talk him out of it.”
“Hey, you can’t say for sure they’ll send me over there,” Dick countered. “I could get posted stateside, or land a cushy desk job in Saigon, like you did.” Ralph had spent his hitch in the administrative office of General William C. Westmoreland, commander of the U.S. Military Assistance Command.
He came back with, “Fat fucking chance. I only lucked out ’cause I got clerical skills. You got nothin’ but brawn, no brains at all. They’re not gonna let you sit it out stateside. They’ll take one look at you and hand you over to Westmoreland. And he’ll feed you to the Viet Cong.”
Dick smirked. “So what am I supposed to do, go to induction in a dress?”
“No, dickhead, you don’t go to induction at all.”
“Right, I just sit home and wait for the MPs to pick me up. It don’t take much brains to know that wouldn’t be a real good idea.”
“Not only no brains, but no imagination, either,” said Ralph in disgust. “No, you don’t sit home and wait, you scram north, across the border.”
Dick was appalled. “Are you out of your fucking mind? My old man would kill me. He fought in the good one, infantry. He thinks we should nuke the gooks.”
“Don’t tell him.”
“You think Ma wouldn’t know I wasn’t packing for boot camp? And what would I do with myself in Canada, jerk off until the war’s over? Then what? You think I could just waltz back home, all is forgiven? No fucking way.” He flicked his cigarette into the gutter and marched off.
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