“Have the Van Allens been told about the ax?” Reardon asked.
“For sure. They get a daily report on the case.”
“Well, hold back a few details for Christ’s sake,” Reardon said irritably. “I mean, this is a criminal investigation. You need to hold back some details.”
Piccolini looked up. “Look, I know what I’m doing in this case. And we’re going to break this case. And it’s going to stick. Personally, I think we’ve got our man, and that’s all there is to it. This thing will be wrapped up by the end of the week.”
“What about the women?” Reardon asked.
Piccolini looked at Reardon quizzically. “What women?”
“The women in the Village.”
“Oh,” Piccolini said, “those women. Well, I don’t know. Probably no connection there.”
“I think there is,” Reardon said, convincing himself of it.
Piccolini looked at Reardon scornfully. “You know, you’re really somethin’, John. At first you didn’t think there was a connection. No reason, you just didn’t think so. Now you think there is. Do you have a reason?”
“Only what you know.”
“Only the same number of wounds on the bodies of the deer and the women, right?”
“That’s right,” Reardon admitted. “And the numbers.”
“Forget about the numbers. That doesn’t mean anything. And you know as well as I do that pathologists have a hard time determining exactly how many wounds are deliberately inflicted on a victim. They come up with a guess, really. And by coincidence they came up with the same guesses for the deer and the women in the Village. To tell you the truth, I don’t think it means a thing. So drop the connection between the cases.”
Reardon glared at Piccolini.
“I mean it,” Piccolini said. “Drop it! You just keep yourself busy finding that little Greek guy. It’s ridiculous that he hasn’t been located yet. Ridiculous! And I want him! Fast!”
Reardon turned to leave.
“And, John,” Piccolini said, “maybe you didn’t take a long enough vacation.”
“I’ll tell you when I need a vacation,” Reardon snapped.
“Think about it,” Piccolini said, “think about it real good. My reading of the situation downtown tells me that they’re not too happy with the way you’re handling this case.”
“Then let them tell me,” Reardon said.
“Just think about it,” Piccolini said, “think about it real good.”
Reardon did not know why he thought there was a connection between the killing of the fallow deer and the murders of Karen Ortovsky and Lee McDonald. Piccolini had been right when he pointed out the inexactitude of the pathologist’s report. There was also a problem in determining how many wounds were direct thrusts on the part of the assailant and how many were defensive wounds caused by the victim’s attempts to protect herself from the attacker.
Reardon decided to check out the most obvious connection first; later that afternoon he called the Department of Buildings and confirmed that the building in which the two women had lived, like Petrakis’ building, was owned by Wallace Van Allen.
“Do you think that makes a connection?” Reardon asked Mathesson. They were at Reardon’s desk, Mathesson leaning against it, a cup of coffee in his hand.
“Not an important one,” Mathesson said. “Wallace Van Allen owns half the city. It could be a coincidence, but maybe not. Maybe Petrakis didn’t get enough revenge by killing the deer. Maybe he went after human victims. But I get the feeling you’re not going after Petrakis.”
“What do you mean?” Reardon asked.
Mathesson looked as if he did not want to answer. He took a quick sip from the coffee cup. “I get the feeling that you’re after somebody else,” he said. “Some other killer. Maybe Wallace Van Allen himself.”
“I would never do that,” Reardon said.
“Well, don’t you think Petrakis did it, killed those deer?”
“He may have. But he may have killed Karen Ortovsky and Lee McDonald too.”
“Why?”
“For the same reason you said. Maybe he’s completely crazy. Maybe he intends to kill someone in every building Van Allen owns.”
“You don’t think he’s crazy enough to believe he can bring down Van Allen’s empire by scaring everybody who lives in one of his buildings, do you?”
“If he’s insane, he could believe anything,” Reardon said.
“Van Allen would hire an army before he’d let that happen.”
“Of course he would,” Reardon said, “and any sane person would know that. But what if this Petrakis is insane? Couldn’t he have an idea like that? And do we have to wait till somebody else gets chopped up in one of Van Allen’s buildings to do something about it?”
Mathesson laughed and draped his arm affectionately around Reardon’s shoulders. “I don’t know, John,” he said. “I don’t know about you and your theories.”
For a long time Reardon sat at his desk going over the investigation to see if Mathesson could be right, if he really had been aiming the investigation away from Petrakis. It was true that, having met him, he did not like Wallace Van Allen very much. But Van Allen’s condescension toward him was not noticeably different from that which he had experienced from others like Van Allen in the past. Perhaps he did have an added measure of hostility toward Van Allen because the man had been able to pull him off homicide and put him on the deer case. Still, he did not believe he was “after” Van Allen. In thirty years on the force he had never been “after” anyone.
He was still weighing the evidence against himself when the phone rang.
“John Reardon,” he said.
“John, this is Josh down at the lab. I’ve got the findings on the ax. The one in the deer case.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, there are prints.”
“Whose?”
“Only one set. Traced them to an Andros Pe … Pee …”
“Petrakis?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Petrakis. Somebody didn’t write it down very well on the sheet.”
“Andros Petrakis,” Reardon said. “You’re sure?”
“That’s right. And only one set.”
“Thanks,” Reardon said, and started to hang up.
“There’s one detail,” Josh said. “Damndest thing, I don’t know if it’s important, but the positioning of the prints is kind of unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, this was an ax killing, right?” Josh said.
“Right.”
“Well, where would you expect the prints to be located?”
“On the handle.”
“Right. But the weapon is clean for about two-thirds of the length of the ax handle.”
“What?”
“From the bottom of the handle.”
“Can you give me that again?”
“Ah, hell, if you were here it would be clear in a minute. The ax handle is approximately three feet long from the bottom of the handle to the blade. And from the bottom of the handle to about eight inches from the blade the handle is clean. No prints. But after that, the damn thing is covered with prints. Of this Petrakis guy. His prints. Clear as day. Hell, you could almost see them without dusting.”
“I see,” Reardon said, but he did not know what to make of it.
“The prints begin at about four inches below the blade. And there are a few on the blade itself.”
Reardon was mystified. “Do you know what this means? Do you have any ideas?”
“Nothing for sure. The only thing I can figure out is that maybe he had started to clean up the prints, and then he got scared or something and just took off. Decided to hide the thing and just forget about it, you know?”
“Thanks, Josh,” Reardon said, and placed the receiver back on the cradle. So Petrakis had started to clean it up, he thought, but then had left it there with prints still on it. Maybe he had heard something. Maybe he had heard the same
thing Noble had heard. Maybe he had heard the only thing that would make him run, make him panic so much that he would just leave his prints on the ax and hope that it wouldn’t be found. Maybe he had heard the approach of a witness.
Looking at the ax later that afternoon, Reardon got a better idea of what Josh had told him. While Mathesson stood with his hands behind his back, his eyes roaming the lab for something more interesting than a routine weapon, Reardon stared fixedly at the ax. It lay on its side atop a metal table. Most of the handle had indeed been cleaned meticulously of fingerprints. Reardon had rarely seen a weapon so thoroughly scrubbed in part and so completely untouched elsewhere. Killers who used knives, Reardon had noticed, usually did not stop after cleaning the handle but dutifully wiped the blood from the blade as well, even though it could not possibly incriminate them. They did this from habit, Reardon assumed, but the ax used in the killing of the fallow deer presented a paradox that could neither be explained nor altogether dismissed.
He picked up the ax and perused the handle slowly. It was spotless from the base up to about seven or eight inches from the blade. Then spots of blood began to dapple the wood. The blade itself was almost completely sheathed in bloodstains.
Mathesson motioned toward the ax. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “When you’ve got the weapon, you’ve got the killer.”
“Not always.”
“Sometimes,” Mathesson said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Reardon.
“No, thanks,” Reardon said.
“Oh, right,” Mathesson said. “I forgot. You quit.”
Reardon’s eyes remained riveted on the ax. In the presence of a weapon he became almost reverent, not out of respect for the weapon itself but for the human being, obscure and silent, who had been slaughtered by it.
“Do you watch much TV?” Mathesson asked.
“What?”
“Do you watch much TV?”
“A little.”
“They had a goddamn good show on last night.” Mathesson chuckled. “A real whodunit, you know? First I thought it was the wife, then the lover, then the brother-in-law. Hell, I’d have put the whole goddamn family in the slammer before I’d have fingered the right guy.”
Reardon’s eyes continued to move up and down the ax. Mathesson’s voice was recorded only as passing unintelligible sounds, like street noise.
Finally, Reardon said: “What do you make of that?”
“What?”
“The way the ax is so thoroughly cleaned of prints on part of the handle and covered with them on the rest.”
Mathesson looked at the ax. “Well, the only thing I figure is that the killer got scared, panicked, started running, and threw the ax in the sewer drain on Fifth Avenue. And if the killer is Petrakis, then it stands to reason he might run east up to Fifth Avenue, ’cause he lives on the East Side, East Ninetieth, right?”
“That’s his old address, but remember, he’d been evicted. We don’t know where he was living the night the deer were killed.”
“Oh, yeah,” Mathesson said, “that’s right.” He looked at the ax again. “I’ll admit that a guy who’d clean a weapon as good as this guy did, you could expect him to clean the whole thing, not leave any prints. But who knows what was going through his mind? And remember, John, those prints belong to Petrakis and nobody else. Now, I figure he just plain bolted. Just plain panicked. Forgot everything. Just started running home.”
“If his new address is on the East Side.”
“Right,” Mathesson said. “And another thing. That ax came from a toolshed not far from the deer cage. I just got this from Bannion this morning. I asked Bannion to check and see if it looked like the toolshed had been broken into, and he said no. He said that whoever took that ax had to have had a key to the shed.”
“Who has access to the shed?”
“Noble, Bryant and Petrakis. The regular night crew. I talked to Bryant just before I came over, and Bannion talked to Noble last night. They hadn’t been using the ax. Noble said he saw it in the shed earlier that night when he went to take out something else.”
“So it had to have been in there,” Reardon said, “and whoever took it out had to have had a key.”
“That’s right,” Mathesson said. “Everything’s right for Petrakis.”
“All right,” Reardon said, “what’s your idea of the whole thing, from beginning to end?”
“Well,” Mathesson said, “I figure Petrakis was real upset. His wife dying and all, you know. And on top of his wife dying and this costing him all his money, he gets kicked out of his apartment. So that sets him off, you know? Puts him over the brink, you might say. He’s real agitated by now. Crazy. So he goes to the park, maybe just to walk around at first, who knows? Anyway, he goes to the zoo and on the way he meets Bryant. He’s so mad that the only thing he can talk about is his lousy landlord. Which is none other than your friend and mine, Wallace Van Allen.”
“You think he’d have known who his landlord was?” Reardon asked.
“I don’t know, to be honest with you. Of course, that stuff is in the public record. Anybody has access to it. Anybody can find out who their landlord is.”
“But it takes a while to track it down.”
“Yeah,” Mathesson said, “but look at it this way: I once had a buddy who lived in a building on East 72nd Street. Now, normally he wouldn’t know who his landlord was. Just some corporation, you know what I mean? But it so happened that his building was owned by some movie star — I forget who it was exactly — but a big Hollywood star, you know? So my buddy knew who owned the building. Kind of took pride in it, you know? Like it made him kind of different, kind of important or special or something, living in a building owned by a famous person.”
“Yeah,” Reardon said.
“Well, Wallace Van Allen is a big name, you know what I mean? So Petrakis could have known who his landlord was without going through the hassle of researching it. I’d be willing to bet that if you canvassed Petrakis’ old building the tenants would know that Wallace Van Allen owned the building they live in.”
This made sense to Reardon. He leaned on the metal table and concentrated his attention on Mathesson. “Go on.”
“Well,” Mathesson said, “Petrakis goes to the zoo. Now remember, he’s goofy. He takes the ax and decides to get even with Van Allen. So he kills the deer in a crazy rage. Uncontrollable, you might say.”
“Why did he kill them like he did?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did he cut one of them to ribbons with fifty-seven different wounds and then kill the other one with a single blow?”
“Maybe he was tired,” Mathesson said. “What he did to that first deer would take a lot out of you. In any case, after he’s through with the killing, he starts cleaning the fingerprints off the ax. He probably plans to put the ax back in the toolshed. Then he hears something, maybe that muffled and grating sound Noble heard. Anyway, he panics. He forgets about cleaning the goddamn ax and just decides to ditch it.”
“On Fifth Avenue?”
“That’s right,” Mathesson said, visibly warming to the narrative. “But he sees he’s on a city street that could have witnesses, and there he is holding a goddamn ax that’s dripping with blood, so he pitches it in the sewer drain under the street. And that’s it. He takes off for home.” Mathesson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, clearly pleased with his account.
For a moment there was silence, while Reardon thought about the scenario just presented by Mathesson. “So Petrakis took off toward home?” he asked finally. “Remember, we don’t know where he lives since he was evicted.”
“The chances are he stayed on the East Side. I’ll bet when you find his new address, it’ll be on the East Side.”
“It may be,” Reardon admitted.
“May be, bullshit!” Mathesson laughed, shrugging off the frustration that Reardon could see building in him. “Well,” he said, “we may have the clincher anyway.�
��
“What clincher?”
“It may not be sure,” Mathesson said with a teasing smile, “but it’s a chance. That kid, Daniels.”
“The kid with the cocaine bust?”
“That’s right. I finally got through to him.”
“So?”
“I got through that goddamn wall of legal eagles his rich papa hired to get the little prick off the hook,” Mathesson said proudly. “He’s coming in to talk to us. He may have seen something.”
Daniels might have the answer, Reardon thought. Cases had been broken that way before, and Reardon hoped the killing of the fallow deer and of the women in the Village could be solved quickly. He was not sure why this case disturbed him so particularly. He only knew that it did, and he wanted to escape the pressures he could feel building in himself with every hour it remained unsolved. “When’s he coming in?” he asked.
“He should be here in an hour or so. Piccolini offered to have the questioning done at the kid’s place, but the kid’s father said that he’d rather it all be done down here.” Mathesson grinned. “He probably thought we’d come roaring up with our sirens blasting, and that wouldn’t look too good on Fifth Avenue.”
Reardon pulled out the arrest sheet for the morning the fallow deer were killed and looked at it. “Winthrop Lewis Daniels,” he said.
“His father must be scared shitless.” Mathesson popped a piece of hard candy into his mouth and started moving it from one side of his mouth to the other. “The old man probably figures we’re gonna try to pin a heavy rap on his darling boy.”
“Heavier than possession of cocaine?”
Mathesson flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Ah, they won’t even pin that on him. This will be strictly a probation rap. You don’t stick a possession charge on an Upper East Side kid. You know what I mean. This is strictly a bad bust, a lot of paperwork for nothing.” Mathesson winked at Reardon. “Like the Spics say in the Barrio, ‘Nada, nada and more nada.’”
Reardon nodded. It had always been this way, he thought. But it was becoming more difficult for him to accept it.
Blood Innocents Page 11
