by Daniel Fox
“But once he’s away from Bader’s influence he starts to lose the story. It starts to unwind.”
“And that’s where Georgie figures something is hinky.”
Ida drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “But we’re back to the timeline. Wouldn’t they have records of Lagercrantz, I don’t know, receiving medication at the hospital during the time of the killing?”
“Records can be altered.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.” Ida shook her head. “The staff would all have to forget the last time they interacted with Lagercrantz.”
“Aren’t they overworked there? I know you even pitched a story to Cliffy about how that place was stuffed past capacity. Maybe they just didn’t recollect an exact date they last worked with him. Maybe Doc Bader had to use a little persuasion. We may not like it, but we’re still here, and Lagercrantz did take the fall. We’re the only ones who know about Bader.”
They were silent for a minute, brains working full speed. Traffic passed. A car horn honked down the street. Some late-night pedestrians walked by, laughing.
Ida looked down at her hands in her lap. “I sent George off to die.”
“Shut up.”
“I did.”
“No.” Bob turned towards her. “You said George was confident that Pointe was clear. We don’t know if he made it to Pointe or if he got intercepted. But I figure either way the only ones who were going to get a drop on Georgie were dirty cops that he otherwise trusted. You were both too amped up to let someone else get close to you.”
“Which leaves us with the question, if this is all connected, the dirty cops, Bader killing Myrna, maybe even that Wally Clemp guy, those bodies you found by that hunting cabin-”
“Maybe.”
“How the hell is Bader ordering police around to do his bidding?”
They both sat back. More thinking.
Finally Ida waved the picture again. “This isn’t nearly enough proof. Especially for a guy as connected as Bader. He’s friends with the Mayor for Godssakes.”
“And he probably has some police in his pocket.”
“We’re going to need more proof. And the only place I can think of where said evidence might still exist is his home. So hey war hero, you want to take a girl on a B and E run into a monster’s lair?”
“No,” said Bob, reaching for the door handle, “but I’ll do it anyway.”
CHAPTER 47
Bob called in to the paper, got a copy kid to fetch Doctor Bader’s address from his box of index cards on his desk. La Mesa Drive, Santa Monica.
Another two-car mission took them north. They drove by the address, scoping it out. The house was a long two-story job, sitting well back from the road across a well-maintained and very green lawn. The whole of it was made of beige stone with some kind of brown wood shingling on the roof, a gate in the left end of the building presumably led into a parking area for cars. The front sported an immense bay window, the wood of its frame going from just under the second floor line right down to the lawn.
They parked well down the street. Ida waited as Bob got out, walked down the sidewalk, kept turning his face away from the headlights of passing cars, like that wasn’t more suspicious than just looking straight ahead. He almost walked into a mailbox. He joined her in her car again.
“Did you see his place?” Ida shook her head. “I knew I should have been a doctor.”
“A woman doctor?”
“Yeah buddy, that’s right.”
“Nah. Men would keep coming back with complaints of pain in their... down there.”
“Nothing a good swift kick wouldn’t fix.”
“Doctors need a good bedside manner.”
“Good point. Never mind, I’ll stick with being the paper’s best reporter.”
“Second best. Did you see any lights on?”
“No.” Ida checked her watch. “But it’s heading towards two a.m. Even monsters need their beauty sleep.”
“So what I figure is I’ll go up first, try and see if he’s in there. If he isn’t I’ll get in then signal you.”
“Why do you get to go first?”
“Because it requires sneaking.” Bob nodded at her. “I’ll give you that you’re an okay writer, but I don’t ever see sneaking being one of your strong points.”
“You know what pal? That’s...” Ida considered it for a second. “No, that’s fair. And if he is in there, sleeping the sleep of the wicked?”
“I go in solo.”
“No.”
“We’re dealing with a very dangerous guy here.”
“I owe George.” Ida stared Bob down.
“Fine.”
Ida got out of her car and led the way. Bob hurried to catch up. They strolled down the street like a couple out for a late-night/early morning walk, very casual. Bob hid his tire iron by his side.
They went to the ironwork gate that led to the back parking area. Ida gave it a try, fearing squeaks from the hinges. It swung easy and quiet, the hinges oiled and as well-maintained as the rest of the house.
The back parking area, with space enough for three cars, was empty. Ida hoped that meant the good Doctor was out. She also hoped that didn’t mean he was making the acquaintance of another poor girl.
They went along the length of the first floor, trying to peer in through the windows, but the view was blocked by heavy curtains.
Bob looked to Ida, hefted the tire iron.
Ida looked up at the windows of the second floor. It was a hot night. If the doctor was in and sleeping he’d probably have his window open. All of the windows were closed. She nodded to Bob – do it.
She watched as Bob picked a ground-floor window. He tried sliding it up just for giggles but it was either locked or painted shut. He jammed the tip of the tire iron under the bottom of the window’s frame, tilted his head at Ida – here we go.
He heaved down with his weight, whip-muscle cording in his forearms. The window shot up with a cringe-making screech.
Ida and Bob darted back towards the gate, ready to run like hell. Ida grabbed Bob’s arm to keep him from running all the way back to the car. She listened. Bob listened. They heard a car go by out front. A bit of a rustling in the leaves of the shrubs and trees in the back yard kicked up by the weak breeze. Nothing from inside the house.
Ida slid forward and peeked around the corner of the port-way. Nothing. She moved out onto the back brick patio and looked up – no lights had come on.
The hell with it. She stepped forward. Bob jerked out a hand to stop her but he was too slow and Ida shoved her head in through the open window, batting aside the curtain.
Ida slid in, put her feet on the floor. Bob took a moment, then joined her. They were in a dining room, lots of rich dark wood, a heavy table that could sit twelve with elbow room to spare.
Onward. Inwards. The kitchen. Marble counter-tops. A wooden wine-rack built into the wall, floor to ceiling, almost all of the nooks filled with bottles that would have cost Ida a week’s pay.
A half-bathroom. Hand towels that looked like they had never been touched.
The stairs, with a door beyond. They took the door first. The good doctor’s study. It was a large room, and more than just a desk and books. An examination table stood in the area opposite the modern metal desk, complete with a movable overhanging light.
They went up the stairs. Three bedrooms and a bathroom, a hallway closet for linens and cleaning supplies.
The master bedroom. Ida put her fingers against the door, pushed. It swung open quiet. A heavy four-poster bed stood against the far wall. It was empty and made up – the doctor hadn’t been in it this night.
Ida took the master bathroom. Bob poked his head into the walk-in closet. The room was clear.
They met in the middle, speaking in hushed tones even though they seemed to be alone.
Bob: “Now what?”
“Now we split up and search for real.”
“Split up huh?”
&n
bsp; “You want to double the amount of time we’re in this house?”
“Yeah, alright. What room do you want?”
Ida looked around the bedroom. “I’ll start up here, work my way down.”
“I’ll go with the study downstairs. I’m guessing that’s our best bet.”
“Let’s be quick about this huh?”
Bob headed for the door. “Oh you betcha.”
Ida put her hands on her hips. Looked around again. Looked at the bed. Had Myrna been here, in that bed? Had she been happy in here? Had she been trusting? Had she been in true-blue love?
Ida ran her hands under the mattress.
Bob went through desk drawers.
Ida looked under the bed.
Bob rifled through books at random, thinking maybe the doctor had hid photos between pages.
Ida straightened the bed where she had touched, fearing the doctor would notice the slightest wrinkle. She turned away. Her heel made a hollow noise on the floor.
Bob heard Ida yelling for him. He ran out of the study, up the stairs, into the master bedroom.
Ida had pulled up thin strips of floorboard. There was a hidey-hole underneath, a big one. She had laid out the treasure on the bed.
Pornography magazines. Bob picked one up – a fantasy-based thing. Inside, Nazi officers raped Jewish and gypsy girls.
Loose photographs. Myrna Hodges, looking happy, some with the doctor, some on her own. Playing tennis. Fresh from a swimming pool. In a pretty dress in maybe some kind of holiday resort that a reporter could never afford.
While Bob was checking out the goods on the bed Ida pulled out one of the wrapped bundles from the bottom of the hole. A bunch of something, each individually wrapped in a silk handkerchief.
She unwrapped one, gagged, threw it away from her, wiped her hands on her legs.
Bob looked. It was a piece of dried flesh, old, mummified.
Ida, shaking, looked down. There had to be a dozen of those little bundles of joy in the hole.
CHAPTER 48
Ida floored it.
Back in the bedroom: “Is this enough?”
Bob pulling more of the bundles out of the floor hole: “It’s enough to be a start. It has to be.”
“Who do we take it to?”
Ida ignored a red light, blasted right through. A delivery truck laid rubber with its brakes, belted out a horn blast.
Back in the bedroom: “Cliffy. It has to be Cliffy. We get this out on the front page.”
Ida shaking her head: “He’s a political animal. He likes being buddies with the Mayor.”
Bob unwrapping another bundle, finding a small delicate pierced ear. “There’s no one else left we can trust to listen. You’ve got to make him listen.”
Ida made a screeching left. Her car slid, got weightless on its left wheels, threatened to tip over.
Back in the bedroom, Ida collecting evidence, the little bundles making her skin crawl as she stuffed some in her pockets. “We. We’ve got to make him listen.”
Bob shaking his head. “I’m staying.”
“Here?”
“We can’t let him get away. If Bader comes back, I’ll capture him. Hold him.”
“He’s a killer.”
“So am I.”
Ida skidded into a spot down the street from George Schuttman’s apartment. She pulled Bob’s tire iron from the seat beside her.
The plan, Part One – George had given her his address back when they had dinner together. She had to check his apartment for any evidence he might have gathered. Swipe it.
Part Two – hightail it to the Clarion. Call Clifford’s home, yell in his ear until he came into the office, print up a story while waiting for him, take pictures of Bader’s trophies, blow up the pictures of Myrna, grab Clifford by the balls once he got in and force him to print the story. Once the story was out and on the streets the police would be forced to look into it by public opinion and scrutiny, no matter how high the rot had climbed up the vine.
She jumped out of her car. Jogged up the street.
George’s address - a four-story apartment building, a boring dark brown paint job, dried grass out front. A glass door looked in on the small lobby. She looked around, there was nobody in sight. She jammed the point of the tire iron in by the lock, slammed her body against it. Again. Again. The metal frame of the door curled. It made a racket. She hoped nobody with apartments right off the lobby were light sleepers.
Her sixth try got the lobby door open. She went in. Took the stairs up to the fourth floor. She looked for apartment 403, found it... and heard noises inside.
She took the doorknob to George’s apartment in her hand and twisted it slow, quiet, wincing, not breathing. She eased it open, peeked inside.
That cop, that robbery detective, Fortier, he was inside, turning George’s apartment inside out. He had to be making sure George hadn’t stashed away anything on the murders, anything that could lead back to Doctor Vincent Bader or his merry band of dirty cops.
She tiptoed back down the hall, down the stairs, and out of George’s building.
Ida back in the bedroom: “Not anymore. You’re not a soldier anymore. You’re not a killer anymore. You’re barely...”
“Barely a man?” He gave her a strained smile: “But there’s nobody else. And Myrna and Georgie, they’re begging us to do this. You hear them?”
***
Bob used the time while he waited for either A) Bader to return or B) Ida to return with help.
He went back to the dining room and closed the window. The turn-latch had popped off. He found it on the floor under the table and put it on top of the window. It looked alright enough. He closed the curtains tight. Now there was no sign at all of a forced entry, at least not from the inside.
Back to the study. He’d barely gotten started in here before Ida had called him up to the bedroom. Before he started searching again he called in to the Clarion, the European desk. They’d be in thanks to the time zone differences.
He asked them to try to get info on Doctor Vincent Bader before he jumped the ocean. Anything and everything. He gave them Bader’s phone number for the return call. He told them to hang up if anyone but him or Bly answered the phone.
He worked the study, spiralling out from the desk.
Desk drawers opened, searched, nothing. He checked under the desk’s surfaces in case something had been taped there.
Half an hour in, a lot of nothing except the smell of his own nervous sweat. He looked over his shoulder about every five seconds, not expecting the Doc so much as he was expecting the boogeyman from that drawing that Ida had received from the Skid Row crazy-lady.
Next, the medicine shelves. Bottled pills, bottled liquids, tongue depressors, swabs. In the drawers below – scalpels in a rolled up leather case.
Bob looked over at the examination table. It could have happened here. Myrna might have had her last horrible moments right there, in the corner of the room. Particles of her screams could still be here, settled on the furniture, psychic dust.
He really didn’t want to go near that table. Looking at it nearly made him suffocate. He went forwards anyway.
Nothing taped to the bottom. Nothing taped to the back side.
He let out a whoosh of air. Pure relief.
He almost missed it. The stitching of the leather on this side of the table, about halfway down, along the seam, it had been redone. He ran a finger along it – the thread in this section felt different than the rest.
It was probably just from wear and tear. Just a routine repair. He could probably just leave it.
He went to the medicine cabinet and pulled one of the scalpels from the leather carrying roll. He slit open the replacement stitching. Stuck his fingers in, felt around inside.
He found out how Bader was able to tell the cops what to do.
CHAPTER 49
The Clarion building was a solid thing, a good thing, a sanctuary. Ida skidded into a parking spot, patted her pockets
to make sure the Doctor’s charming trophies were still present and accounted for, and got out of her car.
“Bly!”
Ida’s heart nearly skipped right on out of her chest. “Jesus!”
Clifford stepped out of the shadows of the loading docks, motioned her over. His hair was sticking up, missing its usual thirty-seven coats of head-lacquer, his button-up was buttoned wrong, the left side dangling lower than the right.
Ida joined him, raising her voice over the constant racket kicking out from the open bay doors. “I was going to call you. What are you do-”
“Shut up. I’m here because Charlie called me, all in a panic. Charlie is in that panic because there is a Detective Pileggi upstairs waiting for you. You and Bobby. He says Bobby may have been involved in killing that girl-”
“Myrna Hod-”
“Yeah, her.”
“Bob didn’t-”
“Of course he didn’t! He’s a goddamned hero! That detective upstairs doesn’t think so though. He seems to think that Bob, with your help somehow, tears girls apart because of ongoing war-time trauma, whatever the hell that is.”
“Yeah? Is that what he says? And why would I help Tree?”
“Because you’re in love with him.”
“Fuck right off!”
“That’s what he told me. Tell me I’m right. Tell me it’s all bullshit.”
“It’s bullshit. Hold out your hands.”
“Say what?”
“Just do it.”
Clifford opened his hands, held them out palm-side up. Ida reached into her pockets, pulled out some of the handkerchief-wrapped bundles, put them in Clifford’s hands.
“The hell are-”
Ida nodded at them. “Just look, huh?”
Clifford turned to the light coming out from the docks. Unwrapped one of the bundles. Brought it up closer to his squinting eyes. Yelled and threw it away from himself. “Was that-”
“Myrna Hodges. Maybe. Some of them are fresher than others. We think they might go back a ways. We got them from-”
