Shadow of the Bomb (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Snap. Yes, I heard about it when I walked into the press room. I've just been down with Fahey, and he's beside himself. Figures the heat's really going to be on the department now. He'll be heading down to Hyde Park shortly."

  "Got any details?"

  "Not much. This guy, name's Schmid, that's without a 'T', was found this morning by a neighbor. His apartment door was ajar, which was unusual, and the neighbor, a guy named Prescott who was passing by in the hall, called his name and then pushed the door open. He found the body on the kitchen floor with a rope around his neck, looked like clothesline."

  "Sounds familiar."

  "Indeed. Bet you figured the South beat was going to be a quiet way to spend a few weeks, didn't you?"

  "I don't know what I figured, Al. I'm off to the scene."

  I briefly looked for a taxi, but ended up walking the six blocks to the brick apartment building on Dorchester north of the campus. Small knots of onlookers huddled together across the street, looking at the building, talking in hushed tones, and gesturing toward the third floor. Two squad cars sat at the curb and a young patrolman stood guard at the entrance. I had apparently beaten any other reporters and photogs to the scene, or else they were inside.

  "Malek, Tribune," I told the patrolman, flashing my press card and striding toward the door as if I belonged in the building.

  Stone-faced, he shook his head and moved to block me. "Nobody goes in," he snapped.

  "Fahey here yet?" He shook his head. "Who's upstairs?" Another shake of the head. It became clear that we weren't about to have a chat. I leaned against a tree in the parkway, pulled out my notebook, and scribbled a description of the structure, a typical four-story Chicago-style brick apartment building similar to the one a few blocks away where Arthur Bergman had lived–and died.

  A siren grew louder, and an unmarked car roared down the block and lurched to a stop, brakes squealing. Chief of Detectives Fergus Fahey, in black overcoat and homburg, stepped out of the back seat and scowled at me.

  "I might have known I'd find you here."

  "And a good morning to you as well, Chief."

  "Where are your fellow snoops? I expected a crowd," he snarled.

  "Beats me, although not everyone is as resourceful and aggressive as I am. Are we going up?"

  Fahey looked at me, then at the patrolman. "I wouldn't let him through, sir," the uniformed cop said stiffly.

  "You exercised fine judgment, son. However, I'll take him in with me or else I'd never hear the end of it."

  "You are indeed a fine gentleman, Fergus," I told him as we climbed the carpeted stairway to the third floor.

  The apartment was jammed with cops and a bespectacled little guy in a brown suit who I recognized as a medical examiner. He was kneeling next to the body, which lay face up on the kitchen's linoleum floor. Schmid was fully clothed, shirt, no tie and open-collared. As with Bergman, there was a cord looped around his neck and sunk deep into the skin. I'll spare you the details and simply report that his facial expression and color were remarkably similar to what I had seen in Bergman's apartment, although thankfully there was no stench. He apparently hadn't been dead long enough for that.

  The examiner looked up at Fahey. "Dead at least ten hours, maybe more," he said, answering the chief's unspoken question. "Death appears to be by strangulation. We'll confirm that in the post mortem, of course. No visible bruising, no torn clothing."

  Fahey grunted and turned to a detective named Connors, whom I'd met on occasion. "Any indication it was a robbery?"

  "Nope. Schmid's pocket watch, Swiss-made and a dandy, was on his bureau in plain sight. Same with his wallet, with twenty-two bucks in it. I figure the guy must've known his killer, because there were no signs of a struggle, no chairs turned over, apparently no drawers ransacked."

  "Prints?"

  "Mayer's checking on that," Connors said, nodding in the direction of another plainclothes man, who was dusting for fingerprints.

  "What about the guy who found him?"

  "Pretty shaken. He's back in his apartment down the hall. I've got Melton there with him."

  "Bring him in here."

  "I really think you'd be better off talking to him in his place, Chief," Connors said. "He doesn't want to set foot in here again."

  Fahey made a sound of disgust and turned to me. "I suppose you want to tag along?"

  "You suppose right."

  "Down the hall on the right," Connors said. "Number 3-H."

  We went down the dimly lit corridor and Fahey rapped his knuckles on the door marked 3-H. It was opened by a detective I assumed to be Melton.

  "Hello, Chief. You're here to see Mr. Prescott, right?"

  Fahey nodded as we stepped into a dark, musty living room that looked like it hadn't been redecorated since the Columbian Exposition. A small, bald chap with wire-rimmed glasses sat slumped on a sofa next to an end table. Fahey loomed over him.

  "Mr. Prescott?"

  The little man, who I guessed was about sixty, looked up with a forlorn expression and nodded slowly.

  "I'm Chief of Detectives Fahey," he said, showing his badge. "This is Mr. Malek of the Tribune. Do you have any objections to his being here?"

  He shook his head, giving us a blank expression.

  "I'd like to ask you a few questions," Fahey said.

  Prescott shook his head and looked at the floor, as if in a daze. "I've been answering questions for the last hour or more. I don't know what else I can tell you."

  "Humor me, Mr. Prescott," Fahey said in a quiet but firm tone, as he sat on the sofa next to the unhappy man. "Tell me how you happened to discover…your neighbor."

  "As I told…I forget the policeman's name…I was leaving for work. I'm a clerk at a bank on

  Fifty-third Street." "What time was this?"

  "About 7:15. I have to start at 8:00, but I always stop for coffee first at a café across the street from the bank. Anyway, I was walking down the hall on my way out when I noticed that Mr. Schmid's door was slightly open."

  "And this was out of the ordinary?"

  "Yes indeed, people in this building don't as a rule leave their doors open."

  "What did you do then?"

  "I…called out Mr. Schmid's name, thinking something might be wrong. When I didn't get any answer, I, well, I walked in. But I really wasn't being nosy, I was just trying–"

  Fahey held up a palm. "Nobody thinks you were being nosy, Mr. Prescott. Go on."

  "Well…I stepped in and called his name again. I looked around the living room and turned toward the kitchen. That's when I saw…when I…" He took a deep breath. "Well, you know what I saw."

  "Yes. Did you go into the kitchen?"

  "Oh no, no! I ran out of the apartment and came in here to call the police."

  "How well did you know Mr. Schmid?"

  "Not well at all. He was an extremely quiet gentleman. Oh, we would run into each other in the hall sometimes, or at the mailboxes down in the foyer. We would say hello, and maybe exchange a few words about the weather. He was very proper, very formal. European, German I think. But despite that, he was really quite nice."

  "Did he have many visitors?"

  "Not that I was aware of. But then, this is a very soundproof building. When your door is closed, you never hear anything from the hallway unless someone is speaking loudly, almost shouting, really."

  "And you live alone here?"

  He nodded. "I am a widower. When my wife died four years ago, I sold our bungalow and moved in here."

  "Had Schmid been here all that time?"

  "Yes, yes he had."

  "Did you hear anything unusual last night?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing."

  "Do you know anything about Mr. Schmid's work?"

  "Just that he taught science at the university. Physics, I believe."

  Fahey stood. "Thank you very much, Mr. Prescott. I appreciate your time, and your cooperation. It is possible we may have to talk to you again,
but only if it's absolutely necessary."

  Prescott stood, somewhat unsteadily, and nodded as we left his flat.

  "Not much help," Fahey grumped, "but I didn't expect it." Back in Schmid's flat, where the fingerprinting continued and the body was now draped, the chief looked out onto the street.

  "Shit!" he snarled. "There's a whole batch of them out in front." He meant reporters and photographers.

  "I did you a favor, do me a favor, Snap," he said. "Take the back way, and get away from here. I don't want the others to know I've given you the edge on them. I have enough trouble without answering gripes from the other papers."

  "I'm on my way," I told him. "You can send the others up now." I did duck out via the back stairway and over to the Hyde Park station, where I phoned a story in to the city desk. Then I made one more phone call, which was answered on the third ring.

  "Hello, Mrs. Bergman? Steve Malek here."

  "Oh, Mr. Malek! I hadn't expected to hear from you again so soon, not that I'm complaining, of course. Do you have any news about Arthur's death?"

  "I'd like to come by if I may."

  "By all means. I've been at home writing this morning, but I'm ready for a break."

  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I said, hoping she hadn't turned on her radio to get the news during the last several hours.

  I went through the same routine at the Powhatan Apartments as the first time I'd been there. Check in with the man at the desk, who calls Irene Bergman for an okay to go up, and then ride to the tenth floor in the elegant little mirrored elevator with the ever-so-polite Marcus.

  "Please come in," Irene said, smiling brightly as she swung the door open. This time she was wearing a fur-trimmed, ivory-colored satin lounging outfit and matching feathered high-heeled mules that allowed a peek at carmine-lacquered toenails. Likely not what a garden-variety author wears while toiling on a manuscript.

  After she took my hat and coat we went into the living room. "It's a bit early for a drink, Mr. Malek. Can I get you coffee?"

  I declined with thanks and took the chair I had used earlier, while she occupied the same place on the sofa as before. I lit cigarettes for both of us and she took a long drag, considering me through lidded eyes. "So, I assume you have something to report."

  "In a way. How well do you know Dieter Schmid?"

  She paused at least a heartbeat too long before answering. "I'm interested in why you ask," she said, clearing her throat.

  "Reporter's curiosity," I said, keeping my tone light.

  "Well, I do happen to know Dieter–Dr. Schmid–although we haven't seen one another recently, not for several months. Now it's my turn to be curious."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bergman. I should have come right out with it. Dr. Schmid was found dead in his apartment this morning."

  Her hand went to her mouth and her blue eyes widened to circles. "My God! What happened? Was it a heart attack?"

  "No. He was strangled, garroted in a manner similar to that of your ex-husband."

  "Oh, no! How horrible. Where…where did this happen?"

  "His apartment. I believe you know the location."

  "I…Mr. Malek, why did you come here to tell me this?" Her shock was giving way to anger and she ground out her half-smoked Chesterfield. "Never mind–I think I know. You wanted to see how I would react."

  "Why would I do that?"

  She took in air and exhaled it, then repeated the process, hands clenched in her lap. "You knew…somehow…that I was acquainted with Dieter. Didn't you?"

  "Yes I knew. It doesn't matter how."

  "A campus full of gossips, that's how!" She pulled another cigarette from her sterling silver case, not bothering this time to offer me one, and she lit it herself before I could pull out my Zippo. "So let's see if I can follow your line of reasoning: 'That Irene Bergman, she's an athletic woman, and two men in her life, neither of them particularly robust themselves, have been strangled. Seems to me like more than just a coincidence.' How am I doing, Mr. Malek?"

  "Well, I…"

  She held up a palm to silence me. "There's only one flaw in your theory, Mister Reporter: What was my motive?"

  "Jealousy?"

  "That might–just might–explain doing away with my husband, he of the roving eye. In truth, I did feel like wringing his neck sometimes, that is until I decided to live my own life. But it would not explain Dieter's death. I'm not sure how much you know about my relationship with Herr Schmid, but I can tell you this: I walked away from him, not the other way around. Oh, and another thing: I don't know when Dieter was killed, but I assume it was last night. I haven't been out of this building since noon yesterday, and I can prove it. We have a hall man in the lobby and an elevator operator, both on duty twenty-four hours. And the back entrance is locked both from the inside and the outside between 7:00 p.m. and 7:00 a.m." She folded her arms across her chest and glowered. "So, you were testing me. Did I pass?"

  "Yes, I'd say so," I said, conscious of the perspiration around my shirt collar.

  She sniffed disdainfully. "I suppose the police know about my having had…shall we say a relationship…with Dieter?"

  "No, at least not from my lips."

  "And why not?"

  "It's not my role to do their job for them."

  "Bravo! So you were here hoping to get yourself a scoop?"

  "I was hoping to find out the truth."

  "Did you?"

  "I believe I know what didn't happen," I said, rising. "Now I am sure you would like me to absent myself from your home."

  She looked up and actually smiled. "Part of me is mad as hell about the way you came in here and asked me about Dieter before telling me what happened to him," she said, dangling a mule saucily from the tips of her toes. "But another part of me likes something about you–I can't quite put it into words."

  "My essential brashness?"

  "Well…yes, maybe that's it. Have others used that phrase to describe you?"

  "One person did, a long time ago."

  "Well, she–it was a she, wasn't it?–had you pretty well pegged, Mr. Malek."

  "I go by Steve, or Snap."

  "Why Snap?"

  "Because of my fondness for snap-brim hats."

  "So, Mr. Steve 'Snap' Malek, even if you are something of a heel, I hereby confer upon you the right to call me Irene."

  "So noted," I said, bowing.

  "I also give you the right to telephone me in the future, if you feel the need."

  "Thank you."

  "One last thing," she said, getting up and walking toward the closet to get my hat and coat. "Do you think it likely that the police will be contacting me regarding Dieter?"

  "If I were a betting man, I would say the odds are long indeed."

  "I'm happy to hear that, although of course if they do call, I'm ready for them."

  "I'm sure you are," I said with a lopsided grin as I stepped out into the hall.

  Chapter 18

  Dieter Schmid's murder gave the local press something to sink its collective fangs into. In the minds of editors, two killings easily qualified as a "crime spree," and they were not shy about referring to it as such in their pages.

  The tabloid Times, not surprisingly, led the way with a banner headline that screamed 2ND PROFESSOR SLAUGHTERED! while Hearst's Herald American was close behind with MIDWAY MAYHEM! The other three papers were somewhat more reserved, although each gave the murder its banner head, a rarity during the war.

  In addition to extensive coverage of the killing itself, the dailies, the Tribune included, worked up sidebar articles about past crimes. These included crimes in and around the Hyde Park area, including the saga of the depraved Herman Mudgett, alias H.H. Holmes, who murdered uncounted women in grisly fashion during the summer run of the Columbian Exposition in 1893, and the Leopold and Loeb thrill killing of 14-year-old Bobby Franks south of the Midway in 1924. Only the oratorical skills of legendary lawyer Clarence Darrow saved that pair of youthful murderers from a t
rip to the gallows.

  As MacAfee had suggested, the heat on the Police Department was intense. "People on and around the University of Chicago campus are living in terror," a Daily News editorial intoned. "A great university in the heart of a great city is under siege, held hostage by a killer who for whatever deranged reason has targeted two respected and talented faculty members. Our law enforcement agencies must marshal all of the resources at their disposal to quickly apprehend this criminal and bring him to justice. Time is of the essence!"

  The Tribune also editorialized, urging that the Police Commissioner assign as many personnel as possible to the case, concluding thusly: "The groves of academe are ideally a peaceful place of reflection, contemplation, and the pursuit of knowledge and wisdom. These ivied enclaves cannot, they must not, be assaulted by such as this nameless, faceless slayer. He has to be stopped, and he has to be stopped immediately. It is that or anarchy."

  It was at times like this that I most enjoyed working at Police Headquarters. I missed the banter, the observations, and yes, even the pontification, of my fellow reporters in the press room at 11th and State. The good news, however, was that I was at the scene of the crimes, which promised the possibility of an exclusive story, if and when there was a break in the case. And there had better be a break soon, for the collective mental health of the thousands who were studying, teaching, and toiling on the Midway.

  The morning after Schmid's body had been discovered, a call came in to me at the Hyde Park precinct. "I feel like I'm your secretary lately," Mark Waldron said with a sigh as he handed the receiver across the counter to me. It was Nate Lazar.

  "I was wondering if you are free for lunch today," the professor said.

  "I am, but this time I insist on buying. Is the U.T. up to your standards?"

  "It is indeed."

  "Do you mind sitting at the bar?"

  "Not at all."

  Just before noon, I plopped onto what had become my usual stool at the U.T. bar. A somber Lazar slid in next to me a couple of minutes later.