Shadowtown

by Lutz, John

  Lights, camera, and action, Oxman thought. “Is the corpse real?”

  “It is,” Manders said. “And still where it was found, waiting for you to drive over here and look things over. The ME’s done with it, and the lab crew’s finished, so it can be removed. But I thought the investigating officer should see the murder scene fresh. The ME says cause of death was possibly a heart attack, but more like asphyxiation. There’s a cord—looks like venetian-blind cord—wrapped very tight around the dead man’s neck.”

  Oxman worked his hand from beneath Jennifer’s warm rib cage, swiveled on the mattress, and sat up on the edge of the bed. The bedsprings creaked, or was it his knees? He felt stiff, a little groggy. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call Tobin and get over there.”

  “Fine,” Manders said, as if Oxman were granting a favor rather than obeying an order. He told Oxman the address, said he’d stay on the scene with some blue uniforms until Oxman or Tobin arrived, then hung up. The broken connection sizzled in the receiver.

  Oxman got the rest of the way out of bed and made his way into the bathroom. As he was removing his watch to step into the shower stall, he saw that it was 12:05. He cursed Manders, and people who murdered by moonlight, then he placed the watch on the toilet tank. Oxman always slept nude, so the watch was the only thing he had to take off. He adjusted the chrome faucet handles to a comfortable temperature, then stepped into the stinging cascade of water. It felt hotter than he’d imagined from testing it with his hand. In fact, it was too damned hot, almost scalding. He reached again for the faucet handles, twisted them, and was rewarded with a jet of ice-cold water.

  Just dandy. Only a little past midnight, and the morning was starting off wrong.

  Art Tobin was waiting for him when he reached the “Shadowtown” studio. He’d been Oxman’s partner for the last four years. Tobin had been on the force about as long as Oxman, and he was black and let that bother him more than it should. His blackness, or his attitude toward his blackness, had held him back in the way that Oxman’s stubbornness had been his stumbling block. And Tobin had something else in common with Oxman. He was a solid, conscientious cop.

  Manders was right. The outside of the old building belied the money that had been spent on converting the inside. There was only a small, black-lettered sign mounted on the stained bricks near the front entrance: SHADOWTOWN PRODUCTIONS, INC. It was probable that even fans of the show wouldn’t make the connection with this Shadowtown Productions and the “Shadowtown” that appeared weekdays on television. Oxman realized he’d have to watch at least a few episodes of the show. He didn’t like that idea at all.

  Inside, Art Tobin had been standing in a wide hall, along with two other men. Beyond them was sprawled the body of the murdered security guard. Two blue uniforms lounged nearby and chatted, casting occasional sideways glances at the corpse, as if they suspected someone might try to steal it.

  Surprised by the size of the place, Oxman walked toward Tobin. Plasterboard walls fell far short of a ceiling from which were suspended steel catwalks and rows of heavy klieg lights. Oxman could see all of this only in dimness beyond the lighted area where the corpse lay, but he could sense the building’s vastness around him.

  Tobin introduced the two men with him as “Shadowtown’s” co-producers, Sy Youngerman and Harry Overbeck. Youngerman was a sharp-faced, dark-haired man in his mid-thirties, wearing dress slacks and an expensive white sweater with dizzying diagonal blue stripes. He had on glasses that were tinted green at the tops of the lenses.

  Overbeck was older, maybe in his fifties, with ruddy, even features beneath a military-short crewcut. The brush on his head was rusty brown, but his bushy mustache was almost black. He had on a rumpled brown suit with a red tie that was loosened and twisted at the neck. The top button of his shirt was unfastened. He’d missed another button just above his belt buckle. He appeared to have struggled out of bed and gotten dressed in a hurry in a windstorm. Youngerman looked as if he’d never gone to bed.

  “Lieutenant Manders notified us of what happened,” Overbeck said, “and we got right over here.” He glanced back at his security guard’s corpse as if he didn’t want to look but must. “God, poor Vince. He’d just retired from the police department a few years ago; he told me he was enjoying life for the first time.”

  Oxman could believe that.

  “I suppose this’ll be all over the news,” Sy Youngerman said. He couldn’t help the note of calculation that crept into his voice. What made news made viewers made ratings made money.

  A third man Oxman hadn’t noticed approached from down the hall. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but extremely thin, wearing chinos and a cable-knit brown sweater and carrying a large leather portfolio. As he got near Oxman, he tried a smile beneath his unruly thatch of straight brown hair. He had bushy eyebrows, craggy features. Only in his thirties, when he got older he would be described as Lincolnesque. But there was none of the Lincolnesque somber dignity about him; there was more of a restless energy that made him seem vaguely discontent.

  “This is Zach Denton,” Sy Youngerman said. “He’s our chief set designer.”

  “He discovered the body, Ox,” Tobin added.

  Denton rested the edge of his portfolio on the floor and described how he’d returned to the studio to get something he’d forgotten, some work he wanted to do at home, and as he was walking toward his office heard a soft scuffling sound. He’d gone down the hall, called the guard’s name, and saw McGreery lying on the floor. He thought he was ill, maybe suffered a heart attack, so he ran to help him. In distorting shadows, he might have caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure, but thought little of that until he bent over McGreery and saw the thin cord wrapped around the guard’s neck. He realized then what must have happened—McGreery had surprised an intruder, one who would kill and might still be in the building.

  Denton had run back the way he’d come, then out into the street. He’d piled into his car, driven until he’d seen a phone booth, and called the police.

  “What exactly was it you returned here to get?” Oxman asked.

  “This.” Denton nodded his long head toward his portfolio. “I wanted to make some detail changes on a scene we’re going to shoot tomorrow. A picnic scene. We plan to do it in Riverside Park, and it has to be set up right so it appears the actors are in Central Park.”

  “Why don’t you just go to Central Park?” Oxman asked.

  “Well, grass is grass and trees are trees, and Riverside Park is closer.” As he spoke, Denton shot a look at Youngerman that left little doubt he would have preferred Central Park. But a soap opera, like any other business, operated under constraints of budget and time.

  “It’s a brief scene,” Youngerman said. “Delia warns Roger about seeing his younger-woman lover, then tries to seduce him and is rejected.”

  “Delia?”

  “She’s a character in the soap opera,” Tobin said. “Delia Lane.”

  Youngerman nodded. “That’s right, she’s ‘Shadowtown’s’ temptress bitch, out to roll in the hay with Roger Maler, the town’s eligible bachelor. She’s trying to find out if he’s the real father of Ivy’s baby.”

  “Ivy’s dead,” Overbeck cut in.

  None of this seemed important to Oxman.

  “What about this figure you glimpsed?” he asked Denton.

  Denton shifted his long body uncomfortably. “I might only have imagined I saw someone.”

  “Now imagine you can describe him,” Tobin said. He’d already heard Zach Denton’s story and was looking forward to Oxman hearing it. His ebony features were expressionless, but Oxman knew there was a kind of hard-edged mirth going on behind them. There must be something about Denton’s story …

  Denton shrugged. “He was dressed in black, and I think he was wearing a cape.”

  “Uh, hm,” Oxman said noncommittally, not giving anyone the satisfaction of his dubiousness. But he was thinking, Oh, boy! “You sure he wasn’t just wearing a long overcoat?” />
  “Kind of warm for an overcoat.”

  “Okay, a raincoat, then.”

  “It’s possible,” Denton said. He hadn’t considered that. “Maybe it was a long black or dark-blue coat, unbuttoned.” He frowned. “Or maybe I was imagining things, in the dark, with a body. Hell, I was plenty shook up. Not every night you run into something like this.”

  “I thought you saw the running figure before you knew the watchman was dead.”

  “I, uh, did. But maybe a person somehow senses danger at a murder scene.” He knew he was getting in deeper. “Yeah, I know that sounds crazy,” he said apologetically. “It all sounds crazy, but there’s Vince McGreery, dead.” He began to sway his long body from side to side and shuffle his Nike-clad feet, as if he’d like to break into a sprint and purge himself of pent-up energy.

  “No, it doesn’t sound crazy,” Oxman said. “I’ve experienced that same kind of premonition myself a few times.”

  Denton seemed relieved; he smiled.

  “May I?” Oxman asked, nodding toward the portfolio.

  Denton hadn’t been expecting the request. He stammered, then said, “Oh, sure,” and unzipped the portfolio for Oxman.

  Oxman carried it to where the light was better and examined the contents. There were several large sheets of thick paper on which were sketches labeled “picnic basket,” “blanket,” “cooler.” This was an overhead view, with dotted lines indicating camera angles. There was some black felt-tip scribbling Oxman didn’t understand. The next sketch showed where the actors were to be in relation to the scheme of the outdoor set, along with some notes on lighting. Also in the portfolio were sketches of various other sets, lists of materials, a two-month-old Newsweek, and a magazine titled Babes Fit to Be Tied. This was a bondage magazine, with illustrations showing several models who looked suspiciously underage bound by thick rope in various uncomfortable poses.

  Denton didn’t appear at all embarrassed while Oxman was examining the magazine. “I bought that at a shop near Times Square,” he said. “I’m interested in pornography.”

  “Just the sadistic stuff?” Tobin, who was standing nearby, asked. He was glaring at the magazine with interest.

  “All kinds of erotica,” Denton said.

  “Erotica, shit,” Tobin said.

  Oxman shot him a look that Tobin ignored. Tobin was a straitlaced cop, almost a prude despite the things he’d seen on his job. Or maybe because of them. Oxman didn’t mind what Denton read; it was only the kiddie porn that boiled his blood and made him consider transfer back to the vice squad. Consenting adults and all that.

  He replaced everything in the portfolio and returned it to Denton. “We’ll need you in the morning at the Twenty-fourth Precinct to give a statement,” he said.

  Denton nodded. “Sure. Whatever I can do to help. Hey, I liked Vince. I really did.”

  “That’s it, then,” Oxman said, when he saw that Denton didn’t know whether he could leave. Denton nodded again, grinned his lean, handsome smile, and walked away toward the front exit. His pace was fast and his long arms were swinging in wide arcs. He was obviously relieved to get out of there.

  “Whaddya think, Ox?” Tobin asked.

  Oxman watched the ambulance attendants, who’d just arrived from more pressing duties involving live victims, zipping the watchman into a black plastic body bag. Like so much garbage, Oxman thought. The ripping sound the zippers on those things made always cut through Oxman like something cold and jagged. This time was no exception. Riiiip!

  “Don’t have enough facts to think anything yet,” Oxman said. The attendants placed the watchman on a wheeled cart and headed for the door. “Maybe this McGreery surprised a prowler and got surprised himself. It figures that all kinds of nuts might break into the set of a soap opera. Maybe to act out their fantasies. A lot of kinks probably watch these things.”

  Tobin shook his head. “Ordinary people watch soap operas, Ox. I used to follow this one myself.”

  Oxman looked at Tobin, astounded. But he said nothing.

  “Don’t lay that look on me, Elliot Leroy,” Tobin said. He always called Oxman by his given name when he was mad at him. He knew how much Oxman disliked that. “Anyway, it’s a good thing I used to watch this show, or we wouldn’t know about Edgar Grume.”

  Oxman sighed. He was getting tired of this. “Who the hell is Edgar Grume?”

  “Was,” Tobin corrected. “He was killed—I mean, on the show. He was a vampire, but the kind all the ladies went for. He lived by day in a dark luxury apartment on Park Avenue; at night he went looking for action in Shadowtown wearing the traditional vampire get-up. Including a black cape.”

  Oxman thought about that. “All right,” he said. “That’s something to remember.”

  He and Tobin walked back to where Youngerman and Overbeck were still standing. Seeing the watchman’s body removed seemed to have upset Overbeck. He was pale. He ran a hand over his brush haircut and said, “If you’re done with us, Lieutenant …”

  “Sergeant,” Oxman corrected. “Just one more thing. You still have the Edgar Grume vampire costume around?”

  Youngerman raised his dark eyebrows above the frames of his tinted glasses. “Yeah … a guy with a cape. Zach said he saw a guy with a black cape.”

  “There were several outfits,” Overbeck said. “You’ll have to check with Wardrobe in the morning, but we can go into the prop and costume room and look around.”

  Oxman and Tobin followed the co-producers into a long room that became brilliantly lighted when Overbeck threw a switch. There were various chairs, tables, household items, and smaller painted backdrops lying about. There were also long racks of clothes and several fitting rooms. The place was packed with what looked to Oxman like miscellaneous junk.

  “Everything we need for the show is contained in this one building,” Youngerman said proudly, as if he were a tour guide. “We live-tape each episode and get it to the networks shortly thereafter. There’s only a two-day lag time.”

  “How do you know what’s going to happen?” Oxman asked. A naive question. He didn’t mind playing stupid; it encouraged candidness.

  “Oh, the show’s written way ahead,” Overbeck explained. “There’s a book, a master plot, so we know where we’re going with it over a period of months, and the writers use that as a guide and keep us several episodes ahead. One reason we do it that way is so we can adjust to viewer response. For instance, our polls told us our ingénue, Ivy Ingrams, was falling off in popularity after she was raped, so we had her bleed to death when she attempted to abort her illegitimate child.” There was a hint of something in Overbeck’s voice that suggested he enjoyed pulling the strings in his little made-up world.

  “The viewers liked that,” Youngerman said.

  Oxman glanced over at Tobin, whose face was black stone.

  “Ah, here they are,” Overbeck said.

  Near the end of the rack were two identical vampire costumes on hangers, covered with thin, clear plastic. Oxman examined each of them; there was nothing to indicate that they’d been worn lately, but then maybe there wouldn’t be.

  “There’re only two of these?” he asked.

  “I think so,” Youngerman said. “But you’ll have to talk to Velma in Wardrobe to be sure.”

  Oxman nodded and replaced the costumes on the rack. Velma.

  “Another thing,” he said. “Did the night watchman have a family?”

  Overbeck swallowed and nodded. “A wife.”

  “Manders took care of that,” Tobin said quietly.

  Oxman appreciated the gesture; it was hell breaking the news to relatives of murder victims. This was apparently Manders’s way of balancing the scales after rousting Oxman and Tobin from bed and assigning them to this case, which after all might turn out to be a routine murder-during-break-in.

  Oxman told Youngerman and Overbeck he’d talk to them tomorrow, that he needed their statements. They said they were eager to cooperate and get this thing cleared up.
Avenge poor old Vince McGreery. They had an immeasurably high opinion of him now that he was dead. Then Oxman and Tobin got out of there.

  “Smells wrong,” Tobin said, when they were standing out on the dark sidewalk. The night had cooled; from the west the scent of the nearby river wafted over to them. “That vampire bullshit.”

  “It really is possible some freako was playing vampire on stage, got surprised, and did in the watchman.”

  “I dunno,” Tobin said. “Grume, the vampire, hasn’t been on the show for about six months.”

  “Stake through the heart?” Oxman asked, playing along.

  “Murder by flashbulb,” Tobin said. “He was tricked into the wrong bedroom, reduced to dust by bursts of light from a flashbulb. You know how vampires can’t stand daylight, or having their picture taken.”

  Oxman had heard rumors to that effect; didn’t think it was information that might come in handy.

  “And the dude is dead,” Tobin added.

  “I know. But why?”

  Tobin arched a dark eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Yeah, if he was so popular, a thirsty sex symbol, why’d the writers kill him off?”

  “I mean the actor who played Grume is dead,” Tobin said. “Killed in an accident. So the writers didn’t have any choice but to do in Grume the vampire.”

  “I see.”

  Oxman began walking toward where he’d parked his car behind Tobin’s. Riverside was fairly busy even at this early morning hour. Cabs whizzing by every ten seconds or so, carrying passengers bound for who knew where. The city sometimes reminded Oxman of a festering yeast-pile: virulent, frantic activity leading to decay. He had to catch himself at times or he’d slip into the old cynicism that had helped to destroy his marriage.

  “Some wild place, that ‘Shadowtown,’” he said to Tobin, when they’d reached the cars.