by Allan Folsom
On December 22, 1967, a body, later identified as Albert Merriman, was found shot to death and burned beyond recognition in a torched-out car in the Bronx.
“Mob job, looks like,” Benny said.
“What happened to Willie Leonard?” McVey asked.
“Still wanted,” Benny Grossman said.
“How was Merriman’s body identified?”
“It’s not on the sheet. Maybe you don’t know, boobalah, but we don’t keep extensive files on dead men. Can’t afford the storage space.”
“Any idea of who claimed the body?”
“That, I got. Hold on.” McVey could hear a rustle of papers as Grossman looked through his notes. “Here it is. Looks like Merriman had no family. The body was claimed by a woman who’s down on the sheet as a high-school friend. Agnes Demblon.”
“Any address?”
“Nope.”
McVey wrote Agnes Demblon’s name on the back of his boarding pass envelope and put it in his jacket pocket.
“Any idea where Merriman’s buried?”
“Nope again.”
“Well, I’ll bet you ten dollars to a Diet Coke if you locate the box you’ll find it’s Willie Leonard in there.”
In the distance McVey heard his flight being called. Amazed, he thanked Benny and started to hang up.
“McVey!”
“Yeah.”
“The Merriman file. Hasn’t been touched in twenty-six years.”
“So?”
“I’m the second guy to pull it in twenty-four hours.”
“What?”
“A request came yesterday morning from Interpol, Washington. A uniform sergeant in R and I pulled the file and faxed them a copy.”
McVey told Grossman Interpol was involved on the Paris end and had to assume that was the reason. Just then a final boarding call came for McVey’s plane. Telling Grossman he had to run, he hung up.
A few minutes later, McVey buckled his seat belt and his Air Europe jet backed away from the gate. Glancing again at Agnes Demblon’s name on the back of the boarding pass envelope, he let out a sigh and sat back, feeling the bump of the plane as it moved out onto the taxiway.
Glancing out the window, McVey could see a succession of rainclouds rolling across the French countryside. The wet made him think of the red mud on Osborn’s shoes. Then they were up and in the clouds.
A flight attendant asked him if he wanted a newspaper and he took it but didn’t open it. What caught his eye was the date. Friday, October 7. It was only this morning that Lebrun had been notified by Interpol, Lyon, that the fingerprint had even been made legible. And Lebrun himself had traced it to Albert Merriman while McVey stood there. Yet a request to the New York police for the Merriman file had come from Interpol, Washington, on Thursday. That meant that Interpol, Lyon, had sourced the print, uncovered Merriman and asked for data on him a full day earlier. Maybe that was Interpol procedure, but it seemed a little odd that Lyon would have a complete folder long before giving the investigating officer any information at all. But why did he think it made any difference anyway? Interpol’s internal procedure was none of his business. Still, it was something that needed to be brought to light if for no other reason than to relieve his discomfort with it. But before bringing it up either to assignment director Cadoux at Interpol, Lyon, or cluing Lebrun, he’d better have his facts straight. He decided the simplest way was to backtrack from the time of day Thursday the Interpol, Washington, request had been made to the NYPD. For that he’d have to call Benny Grossman when he got to London.
Abruptly bright sunlight hit him in the face and he realized they’d cleared the cloud deck and were moving out over the English Channel. It was the first sun he’d seen in almost a week. He glanced at his watch.
It was 2:40 in the afternoon.
33
* * *
FIFTEEN MINUTES later, in Paris, Paul Osborn turned off the television in his hotel room and slipped the three succinylcholine-filled syringes into the righthand pocket of his jacket. He’d just pulled on the jacket and was turning for the door when the phone rang. He jumped, his heart suddenly racing. His reaction made him realize he was even more keyed up than he thought, and he didn’t like it.
The phone continued to ring. He looked at his watch. It was 2:57. Who was trying to reach him? The police? No. He’d already called Detective Barras and Barras had assured him his passport would be waiting for him at the Air France counter when he checked in for his flight tomorrow afternoon. Barras had been pleasant, even to joking about the lousy weather, so it wasn’t the police, unless they were toying with him or McVey had another question. And right now he had no interest in talking to McVey or anyone else.
Then the phone stopped. Whoever was calling had hung up. Maybe it was a wrong number. Or Vera. Yes, Vera. He’d planned to call her later, when it was over, but not beforehand when she might hear something in his voice, or for some other reason insist on coming over.
He looked at his watch again. By now it was almost 3:05. West Side Story started at 4:00, so he needed to be there by 3:45 at the latest to make himself known to the ticket-taker. And he was going to walk, going out the hotel’s side entrance, just in case anyone was watching. Besides, walking would help shake out the cobwebs and ease his nerves.
Turning out the light, he touched his pocket to double-check the syringes, then turned the knob and started to open the door. Suddenly it slammed backward in his face. The force knocked him sideways and into a corner area between the bathroom door and the bedroom. Before he could recover, a man in light blue overalls stepped in from the hallway and closed the door behind him. It was Henri Kanarack. A gun was in hand.
“Say one word and I’ll shoot you right there,” he said in English.
Osborn had been taken completely by surprise. This close, Kanarack was darker and more solidly built than he remembered. His eyes were fierce, and the gun, like an extension of the man, was pointed straight between his eyes. Osborn had no doubt at all that he’d do exactly as he threatened.
Turning the lock on the door behind him, Kanarack stepped forward. “Who sent you?” he said.
Osborn felt the dryness in his throat and tried to swallow. “Nobody,” he said.
The next happened so quickly Osborn had almost no recollection of it. One minute he was standing there, then he was on the floor with his head jammed up against a wall and the barrel of Kanarack’s gun pressed up under his nose.
“Who do you work for?” Kanarack said quietly.
“I’m a doctor. I don’t work for anybody.” Osborn’s heart was thundering so wildly he was afraid he might literally have a coronary.
“Doctor?” Kanarack seemed surprised.
“Yes,” Osborn said.
“Then what do you want with me?”
A trickle of sweat ran down the side of Osborn’s face. The whole thing was a blur and he was having a lot of trouble with reality. Then he heard himself say what he never should have said. “I know who you are.”
As he said it, Kanarack’s eyes seemed to shift back in his head. The fierceness that was there before became ice, and his finger tightened around the trigger.
“You know what happened to the detective,” Kanarack whispered, letting the barrel of the gun slide down until it rested on Osborn’s lower lip. “It was on TV and in all the papers.”
Osborn quivered uncontrollably. Thinking was hard enough, finding and forming words all but impossible. “Yes, I know,” he managed, finally.
“Then you understand I’m not only good at what I do—once I start, I like it.” The black dots that were Kanarack’s eyes seemed to smile.
Osborn pulled away, his eyes darting around the room, looking for a way out. The window was the only thing. Seven floors up. Then the gun barrel was on his cheek and Kanarack was forcing him to look at him.
“You don’t want the window,” he said. “Too messy and much too quick. This is going to take a little time. Unless you want to tell me right away
who you’re working for and where they are. Then it can be over very fast.”
“I’m not working for anybo—”
Suddenly the phone rang. Kanarack jumped at the sound and Osborn was certain he was going to pull the trigger.
It rang three times more, then stopped. Kanarack looked back to Osborn. It was too dangerous here. Even now the front desk clerk might be asking someone about the problem with the air conditioning and learn there was none, that no one had called for a repairman. That would start them wondering and then looking. Maybe even calling security or the police.
“Listen very carefully,” he said. “We’re going out of here. The more you fight me, the harder it’s going to be for you.” Kanarack eased back and stood up, then motioned with the gun for Osborn to get up as well.
Osborn had little memory of what happened in the moments immediately following. There was a vague recollection of leaving the hotel room and walking close beside Kanarack to a fire stair, then the sound of their footsteps as they descended. Somewhere a door opened to an inner hallway that led past air-conditioning, heating and electrical units. A short time later, Kanarack opened a steel door and they were outside, climbing concrete steps. Rain was coming down and the air was fresh and crisp. At the top of the steps, they stopped.
Little by little Osborn’s senses came back and he was aware they were standing in a narrow alley behind the hotel with Kanarack immediately to his left, his body pressed closely against Osborn’s. Then Kanarack started them down the alley and Osborn could feel the hardness of the gun against his rib cage. As they walked, Osborn tried to collect himself, to think what to do next. He’d never been so afraid in his life.
34
* * *
A WHITE Citroën was parked on the street at the end of the alley and Osborn heard Kanarack say something about it being their destination.
Then, unexpectedly, a large delivery truck pulled off the street and turned into the alley, coming toward them. If they stayed together as they were, there would be no room for the truck to get by without hitting them. That gave them two choices—separate, or step back against the alley wall and let the truck pass. The truck slowed and the driver gave a toot with his horn.
“Easy,” Kanarack said, and pulled Osborn back against the alley wall. The driver shifted gears and the truck started forward again.
As they pressed against the wall, Osborn could feel the gun dig into his left side. That meant Kanarack had the automatic in his right hand and was holding Osborn’s arm out of view of the driver with his left. Somehow Osborn managed to calculate that it would take the truck six to eight seconds to get past them. That same clarity of thought made him see an opportunity. The hypodermic syringes were in his right jacket pocket. If he could get one into his right hand while Kanarack was distracted by the passing truck, he’d have a weapon Kanarack wouldn’t know about.
Carefully he turned his head to look at Kanarack. The gunman’s full attention was on the truck that was almost upon them. Osborn waited, timing his move. Then, just as the truck reached them, he shifted his weight against the gun, as if to press farther back against the alley wall. As he did, he slipped his right hand into his jacket pocket, digging for a syringe. Then, as the truck passed, he took hold of one.
“Okay,” Kanarack said. And they moved off toward the end of the alley where the Citroën was parked. As they went, Osborn eased the syringe from his pocket and held it tight against his side.
There were now maybe twenty yards between the two men and the car. Earlier Osborn had put a rubber nosing over the tip of each syringe to protect the needle. Now his fingers worked feverishly to slide the rubber off without letting go of the entire works.
Suddenly they were at the end of the alley, with the Citroën less than ten feet away. Still the rubber tip hadn’t come loose, and Osborn was certain Kanarack would see what he was doing.
“Where are you taking me?” he asked, trying to cover.
“Shut up,” Kanarack breathed.
Now they were at the car. Kanarack looked up and down the street, then walked them to the driver’s side and pulled open the door. As he did, the rubber tip came free and fell to the ground. Kanarack saw it bounce and glanced at it, puzzled. At the same instant, Osborn jerked hard to the right, wrenched his left arm free of the gun and drove the syringe through the overall material and deep into the flesh at the top of Kanarack’s upper right buttock. He needed four full seconds to inject all of the succinylcholine. Kanarack gave him three before he tore loose and tried to bring the gun around. But, by then, Osborn had enough presence of mind to shove the open car door hard at him and Kanarack fell backward, hitting the pavement and dropping the gun.
In an instant he was on his feet, but it was too late; the gun was in Osborn’s hand and he froze where he was. Then a taxi screeched around the corner, blasted its horn, swerved around them and sped off. After that there was silence and the two men stood facing each other in the street.
Kanarack’s eyes were wide, not with fear but resolve. All the years of wondering if they would ever catch up to him were over. Out of necessity, he’d changed his life and become a different, simpler man. In his own way he was even kind, caring very much for a wife who was now to bear him a child. He’d always hoped that somehow he’d gotten away with it, but in the back of his mind he knew he hadn’t. They were too good, too efficient, their network too broad.
Living every day without going crazy at a stranger’s glance, a footfall behind him, a knock at the door had been more difficult than he could have imagined. The pain, too, in what he’d had to keep from Michele had kept him nearly at wit’s end. He still had the touch, though, as he’d proven with Jean Packard. But this was the end and he knew it. Michele was gone. So was his life. Dying would be easy.
“Do it,” he said in a whisper. “Do it now!”
“I don’t have to.” Osborn lowered the gun and put it in his pocket. By now nearly a full minute had passed since he’d injected the succinylcholine. Kanarack hadn’t gotten a full dose, but he’d gotten enough and Osborn could see him beginning to wonder what was wrong. Why it was such a struggle just to breathe or even keep his balance.
“What’s the matter with me?” A look of bewilderment settled over his face.
“You’ll find out,” Osborn said.
35
* * *
THE PARIS police had lost Osborn at the Louvre.
Lebrun had gone out on a limb as it was, and by two o’clock had either to create a story justifying new surveillance or pull his men off. As much as he wanted to help McVey, muddy shoes alone did not make a certified felon, especially if that person was an American physician who was leaving Paris the following afternoon and who, politely and forthrightly, had requested the return of his passport from one of his detectives so that he could do so.
Unable to justify the cost of Osborn’s further surveillance to his superiors, Lebrun put his men onto some of the other things McVey had suggested, such as going back over Jean Packard’s personal history from scratch. In the meantime, he’d had a police sketch artist work with the mug shot of Albert Merriman they received from Interpol, Washington, and now she was standing behind his desk, looking over his shoulder, as he studied her work.
“This is what you think he would look like twenty-six years later,” Lebrun said rhetorically in French. Then looked up at her. She was twenty-five and had a chubby, twinkling smile.
“Yes.”
Lebrun wasn’t sure. “You should run this by the forensic anthropologist. He might give you a little clearer sense of how this man would age.”
“I did, Inspector.”
“And this is him?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks,” Lebrun said. The artist nodded and left. Lebrun looked at the sketch. Thinking a moment, he reached for the phone and called the police press liaison. If this was as close as they were going to get to what Merriman would look like now, why not run the sketch in the first editions of tomo
rrow’s newspapers as McVey had run the sketch of the beheaded man’s face in the British papers? There were almost nine million people in Paris, it would ‘ only take one of them to recognize Merriman and call the police.
At that same moment Albert Merriman was lying face up on the backseat of Agnes Demblon’s Citroën, fighting with everything he had just to breathe.
Behind the wheel, Paul Osborn downshifted, braked hard, then accelerated past a silver Range Rover, clearing the traffic circling the Arc de Triomphe and turning down the avenue de Wagram. A short time later he made a right on the boulevard de Courcelles and headed for avenue de Clichy and the river road that would lead to the secluded park along the Seine.
It had taken him nearly three minutes to get the faltering, frightened Kanarack into the Citroën’s backseat, find the keys and then start the car. Three minutes had been too much time. Osborn knew he would barely be under way when the effects of the succinylcholine would begin to wear off. Once they did, he’d have to deal with a fully aroused Kanarack who would have the advantage of being in the backseat behind him. His only recourse had been to give the Frenchman a second shot of the drug, and the effect of the two shots, one coming so quickly on top of the other, had put Kanarack out like a light. For a time Osborn feared it might have been too much, that Kanarack’s lungs would cease to function and he’d suffocate. But then a hoarse cough had been followed by the sound of heavily labored breathing and he knew he was all right.
The problem was that now he had only one syringe left. If something went wrong with the car or if they were delayed in traffic, that syringe would be his last line of defense. After that he’d be on his own.