So was Ted Bundy’s.
“Outrageous!” said Mrs. Phelps. “I loved my husband.” “Among others.”
Atta boy, Couloir.
“It would not be indiscreet for me to observe,” Couloir continued, “that you had several affairs during the past few years. Unfortunately for you, they were highly publicized.”
“Au contraire, M. Couloir. The openness, shall we say, of my indiscretions, as you call them, only served to, shall I say, enhance my public appeal.”
“As your voice was beginning to falter?”
“Be that as it may . . .” though obviously more concerned with her waning operatic career than with any indiscretions, Mrs. Phelps boldly continued, “. . . my husband was not averse to my taking a lover.”
The voice is always first to go.
“Don’t I have something to say in this?” said the gamekeeper. Couloir ignored him, and said to Mrs. Phelps, “But you could not abide your husband’s insistence on your retirement from the stage?”
“What about me?” the gamekeeper insisted.
Mrs. Phelps said to Couloir, “How did you know about that?”
Couloir said, “So you put this poor young man up to murdering your husband. Whereupon, M. Spotswood learned of your plot, threatened to blackmail you, and you did him in. Then you tried to make it look as if poor, deranged Esmond had murdered them both. Withal, one must remember that your husband’s insistence on your retirement, not mere money, was your motive.”
“How did you know?” pleaded Mrs. Phelps.
Couloir simply said, “I didn’t.”
Finis.
I think that means the end. I like the idea of combining a whiff of perfume with a big bluff to break a tough case. But to a modern cop, it seems like alchemy. I doubt it would work on someone as sharp as Mrs. Phelps. I’m trying my best to suspend disbelief, as my wife often urged me. After twenty years in homicide, however, I’ve learned not to believe anything or anybody. Or that such a bluff as Couloir’s would ever work on Dr. Fitch, who’s sharper than a scalpel.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“Want to see the corpse?” the ME said.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Aw, come on. It’s a major excavation. I had to cut through a foot of flab to get into his chest cavity. You wouldn’t believe the size of his heart.”
“Enlarged?”
“Ever heard that country song ‘Heart Like a Whale’?”
“I only need to know if he died of a heart attack,” I said.
“Long overdue,” the ME said. “What a great place to drop dead. I can still see those fairways, rolling like tropical seas, those greens more even than pool tables. I assume he didn’t play. What a shame. He was already in heaven.”
“Was he running?” Tell me something I don’t know.
“Maybe,” the ME shrugged, “though it wouldn’t have been very fast.”
“What about the trail of golf balls?”
“What about them?”
“Okay. Here’s an easier question. Were they his balls?”
“His prints are on some of them. Only his, as far as we can tell. The dimples don’t make it easy. We’re still checking. As for the balls belonging to him, I can show you the only ones I’m sure of. Enter the greatest autopsy room on earth,” the ME said, like a sideshow barker. “Only one thin dime to see the fat man.”
“What about the blood on the five iron he was holding?” I asked.
“Type O,” he said. “Same as the second murder victim.”
“Al Jones,” I said, knowing he only cares about the numerical order of his corpses.
“The first victim was type A.”
“O’Reilly,” I said.
“That’s backward,” said the ME.
“How so?” I asked.
“It should have been A for Al and O for O’Reilly,” he grinned.
I looked at the guy, young, attractive, but obviously spending too much time with corpses. I forced a smile. Though I didn’t like the young prick much, I wouldn’t want to have his job.
“We’re doing the DNA matching,” he explained. “As you know, it takes some time. But you’ve got your killer. Wanna see him? I had to put two autopsy tables together.”
“I’m not so sure he’s the killer.”
A diploma, displayed on the wall behind the ME’s desk, suddenly caught my attention. I squinted at it and said, “This looks like it’s printed in Polish.”
“If it were Polish,” the ME said, “it would be hung upside down.”
I looked closer. “Looks like this one’s signed by, does that say Dr. Fitch?”
“He was formerly dean of my medical school. He’s a great cardiologist.”
So I’ve been told, by his doting wife. “Did he ever examine the fat cousin?”
“How should I know?”
“Would he know that any exertion could kill him?”
“Of course,” said the ME. “Any cardiologist would have known.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
The five iron found on Randy’s cousin had been purchased at Norm Harvey’s Discount Golf Outlet in Jericho, confirmed by a computer trace of the serial number on the shaft. Computers are great, but I still have to do the leg-work, no matter how many bits and bytes back me up.
Norm’s had no customers when I arrived. Two salesmen, who were sipping coffee and shooting the breeze, pounced on me.
“Can we help you?” the older one asked. He wore gobs of gold jewelry, an obvious toupee, and a pencil moustache. I might buy a set of irons from him, but never a used car. His name was Herman.
“Where is everybody?” I asked. “It’s still golf season.”
“It’s always golf season,” said Herman’s counterpart.
“Of course,” Herman said. “We got one customer who plays at least a hundred times a year. Lee Smith.”
“What does he do for a living?” I asked.
“That’s what his boss wants to know,” Herman said. “Lee was in yesterday, and he bought our last dozen copies of Zen and the Art of Golf Cart Maintenance, by the Maharishi. He also bought the only Saddam Hussein autograph driver in existence, the Mother of All Clubs. I thought we’d never sell it, considering the obvious, plus it cost more than a Kuwaiti oil rig. But don’t get me wrong,” Herman continued. “Lee’s a great guy. Very patriotic. Even his balls are red, white, and blue.”
“Can you help me?” I flashed my ID.
“Why not? We get lots of cops in here.”
“There are lots of these stores, aren’t there?”
“Biggest chain in the country,” Herman assured me. “If you’re looking for Norm, he’s not here, or at any of his other stores. On days like this, he’s out playing golf.”
“What about this?” I said, showing him the five iron.
“No returns,” Herman shook his head. “All sales are final.”
“I only want to know if it was bought here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Norm’s always kept impeccable records, since the day he and his wife started this business out of their garage. Actually, Joyce kept the records. She’s also steadier on the links. We should be called Joyce’s Discount Golf.”
Herman checked the five iron’s serial number in their database, saying, “Computers don’t lie. We know everything about our customers. Even the number of times they get laid. Here it is. Pretty quick, huh?” He printed out a sales slip and handed it to me.
I read that a full set of irons, including the five iron the fat cousin was holding, had been purchased there a week prior to O’Reilly’s murder by Dr. Fitch.
“Great irons,” Herman said. “You should buy a set. I’ll throw in a free copy of Norm Harvey’s book, All I Know About Golf.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “All the pages are blank?”
“Let’s just say that Norm’s game is a work in progress,” said Herman. “By the way, what did this doctor who bought the irons do wrong?”
“You writing a book
?” I said.
Herman nodded.
“Let’s just say you should leave this chapter out,” I told him, leaving him looking blank.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Could Randy Randall’s cousin have found the five iron when he was out collecting golf balls? Not likely. We scoured the place. And supposedly he did not collect clubs. At least there were none in his room. I decided to question Randy about this plus a couple of other inconsistencies. I found him in his office, sitting behind his antique desk, sipping fancy tea from a bone china cup that’s too delicate to use in the main dining room.
“You sure there were never any golf clubs in Gregory’s room?” I asked.
“Only balls,” Randall said, savoring the words. Unlike the day before, his clothes were pressed, he was freshly shaved, and there were no bags under his eyes.
“Got a lost and found?”
He opened a closet behind his desk and withdrew a box containing a cashmere sweater, a pair of Ray-Bans, and a baseball cap with Donna Karan printed on the front.
“That’s all?”
“Our members don’t lose much.”
But they’ve won life’s lottery. Go figure.
“Nice sweater,” I said, spreading it out.
“Embroidered with our Broken Oak logo,” Randall said, as if I couldn’t read. “Try it on, Detective. It’s been here at least a month. If you don’t want it, I’ll toss it in the trash.”
“I’ve got a sweater,” I replied, more sharply than I meant to.
“Then one of our caddies will get it.” Randall shrugged and sipped more of his tea, holding his pinkie at an angle I could never equal. “They’re always going through the dumpster,” he added.
“Al Jones have a lost and found in the pro shop?” I asked.
“I’ve already told you, Detective, our members don’t lose much.” Randall spoke like his jaw’s wired shut and he should be sipping his tea through a straw.
“I disagree,” I said sharply, meaning it this time.
“Oh?” He set his cup back in its saucer so they clattered.
“Dr. Fitch is notorious for losing his temper,” I said. “It’s also called self-control.”
“In his defense, however,” said Randall, “I must point out that he has a perfectly controlled bedside manner.”
“How do you know?”
“Hearsay only. I know it’s inadmissible in a court of law.”
“I hear that he examined your cousin.” Another bluff. Why not? Peter H. Couloir didn’t invent it.
“So he did, a few weeks ago. During the August heat wave when Gregory was having chest pains.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but most doctors don’t make house calls.”
“Dr. Fitch was here, having dinner in the club dining room. The diagnosis was heartburn. My cousin had eaten a whole roast beef, much to the chagrin of our chef, and no one knows how much Yorkshire pudding. The good doctor advised me to put him in the hospital for a thorough checkup, but Gregory wouldn’t leave the premises.” Gregory must have been a stubborn glutton.
“You could have ordered him to go.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It’s also the height of the season.” Goose Randy a little.
“Listen, Detective,” Randall frowned. “I was never too busy for my cousin.”
“Fitch must have known that any exertion could have killed Gregory.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Guess who owned the five iron your cousin was holding?”
“Dr. Fitch?”
“Good guess.”
“He could have lost it.”
“Isn’t he a member?”
“Yes, but—”
“You said your members never lose anything.”
“That’s a priori reasoning, Detective.”
“I flunked Latin. So I have to ask a lot of stupid questions.”
“My supposition exactly.” Randy was giving me his regular fish eye.
“Suppose you tell me how your cousin came by the club.”
“He may have found it after Dr. Fitch flung it away in a fit of temper,” Randall shrugged and gave me a look of dismissal.
“I considered that,” I told him. “But you and I both know that your cousin did not collect golf clubs.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
How to catch Fitch? First, you row to his native habitat, in this case, Centre Island. Then you cast a line. Such as, Why did you hit your wife? And you wriggle the bait in front of his arrogant nose. But which bait—the shoes with the missing spike or the five iron? He can only strike at one at a time. Careful, Kanopka. Catch him by surprise.
Fitch’s front door flew open before I could ring the bell.
“What is it this time?” he hissed at me, his eyes colder than a great white shark’s.
“You knew I was here?” Was he holding a five iron behind the door?
“I have an electric eye for trespassers,” he continued hissing. Unlike barking dogs, can hissing animals bite?
“Recognize these?” I showed him the golf shoes.
“Why should I?”
“Your wife told me they look like a pair she bought for you.”
“That is not exactly a positive identification.” He smiled slightly, or was it a wince, like the hook had been set?
“Positive enough, when linked with other evidence.” I held the shoes against the door, so he couldn’t slam it in my face.
“Evidence?”
“These shoes match a print by O’Reilly’s body at the water hazard.”
“So what?”
“The killer was wearing them.”
“Where did you find them?”
“In Al Jones’s locker.”
“Then he is your killer.”
“They don’t fit.”
“They were planted there?”
“Are they yours?”
Fitch gave me a look that said “Idiot,” took a shoe from me, examined it, and said, “They look like a pair I once owned. They caused blisters. I threw them out.” Was that before or after you smacked your wife? “At Broken Oak, I believe.”
“Why?”
“I told you, they caused blisters.”
Fitch handed back the shoe and said, “I am a busy man, Detective, as you must be, also. You must have more important things to do than keep me standing in my doorway.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “We also found your five iron.”
“I have owned a lot of five irons over the years,” he said, evenly.
“It’s the one that killed Jones and O’Reilly,” I told him.
“Are you certain it belonged to me?” he said. Trying to trip me up, like a shaky med student during an oral exam. Although his blood pressure seemed to be rising.
“We know exactly when and where you bought it,” I said. “Right to the second and the salesclerk. You bought it the week before Mr. O’Reilly was murdered.”
“I also lost it that week. If you must know, Detective, I threw that five iron into the woods.”
“Near the water hazard where O’Reilly’s body was found?”
“I cannot recall.” Fitch’s jaw clenched, like he was biting the hook.
“You seem to have an otherwise excellent memory,” I said, keeping the line taut. “Did anyone see you throw it?”
“I was playing solo,” said Fitch, twisting the doorknob so it seemed it might come off. “With a caddy, of course.”
Walking the course, like the pros, so you get a better feel for it? That’s the only way to play, though I’m my only caddy.
“Who was it?”
“Slim,” Fitch seethed. “No one knows his real name. He wanted to retrieve the five iron, but I would not let him. When I let one fly, I never want to see it again.”
“That’s quite a temper,” I said, reasonably sure that he did not have another five iron behind the door. The way his face was turning the color of the hot pink golf socks he was fond of wearing, he would have
flung it by now.
“Are you implying that I could get mad enough to murder someone?”
“Someone like O’Reilly,” I kept up the pressure, “who bilked you out of twenty grand.”
“I save lives, Detective. I do not take them.” Fitch’s hands trembled on the doorknob.
“Or someone like Al Jones,” I added, my foot between the door and the jamb.
“Why would I touch our late, revered golf pro?”
“For boffing your wife?”
“Boffing?” Fitch’s forehead broke out in blotches.
“That’s what I said.” I withdrew my foot but not my words.
“You had better hope, for your sake, Detective, that expression only means giving her golf lessons.”
He slammed the door in my face, after which I heard another door slam inside the house, and some breaking glass.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
“Stay away from Dr. Fitch,” said a vaguely familiar voice, when I answered my phone later.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“Your kumpel.”
“I should have known it was you, Kowalski, and I’m not your pal.”
“But I’m your captain.”
“And I’m in the privacy of my home this evening, off duty.”
“Have another one, on me.” He chortled. “And stay away from Fitch.”
“You still believe that Randall’s cousin is the killer?”
“Prints all over that five iron, along with the golf pro’s blood, and ashes proving it’s the same club that killed the mick, are pretty convincing. He was gonna raze Broken Oak, you dork.”
“What happened to kumpel?”
“The fat cousin did it. Case closed.”
“So he could keep raiding the Broken Oak kitchen instead of dumpster dining over in Glen Cove?”
“You’ll always be a wiseass, Kanopka. And always a lieutenant.”
“You’re forgetting there’s no way the fat cousin could have whacked a guy Jones’s size, hauled his body to the Crown Vic, and dumped it into the trunk without having a massive heart attack.”
Kowalski was silent a moment.
Deadly Divots Page 18
