Who Murdered Garson Talmadge

by David Bishop

  “Thank you,” Brad said, “it’s off the record.”

  On the way down in the elevator, I’d been in too many elevators this week, I told Brad about Susan admitting that Garson had not stopped dealing until we invaded Iraq. Also about his keeping from her the names of the industrialists and government officials involved. And that they were also kept from Charles who had functioned as a liaison courier between Garson and the front men for the European connections. “My guess,” I told Brad, “is if we need to ascertain about when Garson stopped doing deals, we can research Charles’ schedule of flights to France.”

  We drove out of the parking lot that serviced Sidney Blackton’s office. In the past few hours this case had been turned inside out and stood on its head. The D.A.’s case had become Puff the Magic Dragon. The pictures in the morning paper had destroyed any claim of the killer not being able to get a key to enter Garson’s condo. And the letter we just got from Blackton heavily damaged if not destroyed the testimony of Charles Talmadge that his father planned to drop Clarice from his will. The only possible counter argument being that the letter could not be proven as being typed by Garson, and it was signed with a typed GR, not GT, Garson’s first and last initials. The prosecution might also contend that Garson had changed his mind after the letter and before calling his son. But without any kind of support, that dog wouldn’t hunt.

  “What are you doing?” Brad asked as I did a u-turn and headed back into the parking lot of Blackton’s building.

  “We need some support for the contention that letter came from Garson. We need to find out if he had given other typed letters of instruction to Blackton. Letters ended with a typed GR for the signature. Letters Blackton knew from the legal service he provided, had come from Garson.”

  “I should have thought to ask,” Brad said in a tone that suggested he felt disappointed with himself.

  “We were both stunned by the turn of events,” I said. “We had an understandable case of brain fade.”

  Twenty minutes later, we again left Blackton’s office after he had shown us two other letters he had in his file, typewritten letters from Garson. Both were signed with a capitalized, typewritten GR. Both letters were about matters that Blackton then handled for Garson Talmadge. As best as I could tell, one of the letters, the more recent of the two appeared to have been typed on the same typewriter as the one in question, a typewriter with a clogged inside of the circle on a lower case “b.”

  “The cops will check this against the typewriter in the Talmadge condo,” Brad opined.

  “Good,” I said. “Let the cops make your case.”

  * * *

  Before I went to sleep, I called Fidge so we could touch base on what we had been doing. He let me know that yesterday afternoon, after he met with Sidney Blackton, he had stopped at the murder scene and picked up the typewriter in Garson’s bedroom. He had called ahead, and the department had their outside typewriter expert waiting when Fidge got back to the station with it. The letter Blackton had turned over to Fidge had been typed on the typewriter in Garson Talmadge’s bedroom.

  Chapter 25

  Around noon the next day, Fidge called me on his cell. He had confronted Charles Talmadge about his claim that Garson had told him he was dropping Clarice from the will.

  “Chucky didn’t give an inch,” Fidge said. “He still insists his father called him to say he was removing his wife from the will.”

  “Okay. That doesn’t come as a big surprise. Any news on the fingerprints on the letter?”

  “They’re working on it now. I’m guessing they might be done by the time I get back to the station. After it’s done, I’ll call you when I can.”

  Two hours later, Fidge called. “The letter has no useable prints, not even partials. The letter had been handled by someone who had lotion on their hands. The brand of lotion was identified, and there is a big bottle of it with a pump handle sitting near the water cooler in Blackton’s office.”

  I had been hoping for Garson’s prints, but even without that, the way I saw it, the D.A.’s case had drowned. Blackton would testify about finding the letter, and that other similar letters had come from Garson on the same style of paper. The typewriter expert would confirm the typewriter was Garson’s. That would cancel out the unconfirmed testimony from Charles Talmadge about Garson meaning to drop Clarice from his will. In poker language, a letter beats a verbal claim. All the rest the D.A. had would be diluted by the newspaper pictures showing someone else had gotten into and out of the Talmadge condo despite the locked dead bolt. The condo key security claim was bogus.

  The D.A. was left holding a bag with nothing in it other than the thoughts of dirty minded and cynical people who believed that beautiful young women do not marry old, wealthy men for love. Clarice fit that description, but from my having known them, I felt she had made a bargain with Garson and was holding up her end.

  * * *

  “Am I hearing you correctly? The District Attorney’s office wishes to drop all charges against Clarice Talmadge?”

  “Yes, your honor, effective immediately.”

  “I am entering the dismissal with prejudice.”

  “We agree, your honor.”

  The with prejudice qualifier meant, generally speaking, that absent a successful appeal, the D.A. could not again arrest Clarice for the charge of murdering her husband. The D.A. had wanted the dismissal to be without prejudice so he could refile the charges without needing to clear a much higher hurdle. He had surrendered that position only after Brad Fisher threatened a wrongful arrest suit based on their evidence having been flimsy all along. He spoke eloquently of a bumbling police department and heartless district attorney’s office arresting a widow to be left to grieve in the ugliest of places, without compassion or understanding.

  “Mrs. Talmadge,” the judge looked Clarice right in the eyes. “You are free to go, with the court’s apology. I’m sure you have received a proper apology from the District Attorney.”

  Clarice Talmadge cheered and hugged Brad Fisher, and then she hugged me.

  “It’s over, Clarice,” Brad said. “You’re free. Go home and get back to living your life.” Then Brad shook my hand. “Thanks, Matt. I couldn’t have done it without you. I hope we can work together again.”

  “It’s over for you, counselor, not for me. We still don’t know who murdered Garson Talmadge.”

  “That’s not our job.”

  “No, Brad. That’s not your job, but an investigator doesn’t stop until the case is solved or every possible lead has been run to ground, at least not this investigator. I still need to know who and why.”

  After another round of glad handing and back slapping, I looked over at Fidge, who winked at me and smiled. Clarice waved to my ex-partner and smiled. Fidge lowered his head while looking back at her. I liked that. Clarice wasn’t holding a grudge, at least she wasn’t acting like she did. Then she twined her hands around my bicep, drew up close and whispered in my ear. “Let’s go back to my place and celebrate. I feel like I haven’t eaten, drank or fucked in a year.”

  On the way out, Susan stepped out from one of the bench seats to stand in front of us. We stopped. After one of those seemingly long, unsure moments, Susan smiled and the two women hugged. Women have much more liberal rules about hugging their own sex than do men. Women will even dance together in public, which men wouldn’t do even after winning the World Series.

  Things were looking good. Everybody seemed happy, but the core question remained unanswered and that prevented me from joining in their reverie: who murdered Garson Talmadge?

  The freeing of Clarice would make finding Garson’s killer all the more difficult. The prospect of her unjust conviction had been the wedge to pry open more of what the FBI knew, or at least what they suspected. Now they had no reason to do so until they were ready, if ever, to coordinate with the French authorities to bring more of this out in the open through arrests or the ubiquitous leaked scandal. So, what did that mean? I’d
have to find the killer without any help from the FBI. It sounded easy when I said it in a simple sentence, but like so much in life, the devil would be found in the details.

  But I wasn’t going to find the answer tonight. Clarice Talmadge was a free woman, no longer a suspect, no longer married, and no longer wearing jailhouse orange. She was back on the market, and I was ready to go shopping. Tonight I would burn my celibacy calendar.

  Right then, in the hallway outside the courtroom, Susan Talmadge came over and stood very close. “The trial is over for Clarice,” I said, “but I still want to know who killed your papa.”

  “And I’m still a suspect. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way, but I need to stay clear headed until we get to the end of the trail. Tell me you understand.”

  “I understand, damn it, as long as we’ve got a date the first night after you get your man … or woman.”

  I nodded and smiled with anticipation before saying, “You’re on.”

  “Literally, Mr. Kile?” She smiled at what we both knew was an intentional double entendre.

  “Literally, Ms. Susan.” I touched her cheek just before a reporter stuck a microphone in front of my face.

  “Mr. Kile. Does this mean you’re giving up the writing game and are back in the crime-fighting business?”

  “Whoa. Whoa. I was just doing what I could to help Clarice Talmadge, a friend, who I knew to be innocent. The real hero here is Brad Fisher, attorney at law. Go see him for this story. As for me, I’m still a writer, so please come back to interview me when my next novel comes out.”

  “It’s a date,” the reporter said over her shoulder as she headed toward Brad who was already standing in front of a handheld TV camera.

  I turned back, but Susan was gone and in her place stood her brother, Charles. “Mr. Kile, your work is over. You’re terminated. Send us your final bill.”

  “I was employed by your stepmother’s attorney. It is up to him when I’m terminated.”

  “His job was to represent Clarice. He’s done that. She’s free and can’t be tried again. I repeat, you’re through.”

  “Get out of my face, worm.” I tried to step around him. He put his left hand on me with his right inside his jacket. At least he was learning, this was better technique than what he had tried in his apartment. “Oh, sure,” I said, “you’ll going to pull your gun here on the courthouse steps with the TV cameras running ten yards away. I can tell you from my own experience that isn’t smart.”

  “I won’t warn you again, Kile.”

  “You’ve put your hands on me twice and gotten away with it because I like your sister. Under the law, that’s an assault and I have the right to defend myself. You put your hands on me again, I’ll knock your teeth out and then kick you in the balls for mumbling.”

  Clarice was standing with Brad Fisher, being interviewed. I took the opportunity to head for my car. I wanted to get home and spend a little time with Asta since she would be back with Clarice before the night was over. That silly little mutt had sort of grown on me. Or maybe I was hoping Asta would tell me about sitting on the bathroom rug while Susan took a shower, or maybe a bubble bath. I know, dogs can’t talk, but men can fantasize.

  I also wanted to have some Irish and try to sort out the come ons from Susan and Clarice. Being involved with both of them was okay, I guess. They weren’t really mother and daughter, but it still sort of felt weird. Good weird, but weird. My love life had been suffering from a long bout of unemployment, and now I had two job offers. And I was looking forward to putting in my application for both positions.

  Chapter 26

  The next morning, I slept in after a rigorous night applying for the part time job with Clarice. I would say the job was piecework, but somehow that seems tacky. I hadn’t done that kind of work in a while, but it was like riding a bicycle. Clarice had met me at the door wearing a fabulous cycling outfit, which really got me in the mood to swing my leg over the seat. The euphemistic bicycle had to have been a bicycle built for two because Clarice had done a significant portion of the pedaling. We had ridden around most of the night, then having gotten all hot and sweaty we took a shower and turned our attentions to eating and drinking.

  After that, I had come back home to sleep. If for no other reason than to keep some, slight as it was, distance. Clarice was no longer a suspect in the eyes of the police, but she hadn’t graduated to that status in my eyes, not completely. I had done my job for the defense, and I didn’t really think Clarice had killed Garson, but I had seen a way where she could have. And, if that theory held up, it meant she had first tried to use me as an alibi and then later as her champion. I would know soon enough, or at least know more soon enough. We had a lunch date and I planned to use it to test drive my Clarice-still-did-it theory.

  * * *

  Not being greeted by Asta had made my place seem lonely. But I put it aside and took some coffee and the morning paper out to the balcony. The sky was clear and a gentle ocean breeze had blown away Mother Nature’s fog just as fully as Clarice had blown away my fog.

  The newspaper was full of pictures and stories about Clarice and the dramatic surprise end to her trial, which had never really started. The D.A., Fidge, and one of the press’s favorites, the city’s dapper chief of detectives, Captain Dickson, had all made their smiling statements about justice prevailing. There was also an interesting article titled, The Real Garson Talmadge. The reporter had to have been working on this article for a while as it was chock full of suspicions and the famous unnamed sources to complete a sordid picture. Garson Talmadge had been a crusty gent who had made a wad of money selling the tools of death to despicable dictators who used those tools without compunction. The article ended with the question which still consumed me: who murdered Garson Talmadge? There were no city budgets, or other cases for me to be assigned. The Garson Talmadge case was mine and I would unwind it as long as I could find a thread to pull.

  * * *

  I left for my lunch date with Mary Stone, Sidney Blackton’s secretary. We met at a nondescript lunch diner on the corner across from her office. I got there early and took a booth in the corner. I had seen her in Blackton’s office, so I would recognize her even if she didn’t recognize me.

  Mary Stone was not what you would call an attractive woman. She was wearing an outfit that must have been picked out for her by the fellow who designed rental bowling shoes. No one took rental bowling shoes home, and I figured the same was true with regard to Blackton’s secretary. Still, she had a nice smile and a pleasant voice.

  “Mr. Kile. First I must tell you that I’ve read all your books. I have your most recent one with me. Would you please autograph it for me? I told my book club I was having lunch with you.”

  “It would be my pleasure.” I put quotes around, To Mary Stone, signed it, and then said, “If you would like me to meet with your book club sometime, let me know. Some book clubs like speakers, some don’t, so no problem either way.” She thanked me effusively, and then I dove into why we were meeting. I told her that no fingerprints had been salvageable off the letter her boss had given us; the letter that supposedly came from Garson Talmadge. Then I waited while Mary ordered a salad and ice tea. I held up two fingers to the waiter so he would bring me the same.

  Then I moved into some new territory. “Based on your recall, how often did Mr. Blackton have appointments with Garson Talmadge?”

  “I would say about once a month, sometimes more often.”

  “Did Mrs. Talmadge ever come along with him?”

  “Most of the time she did.”

  “Did she sit in on the meetings?”

  “Oh, no, Mr. Talmadge did not want her involved in his business affairs. At least that’s the reason Mr. Blackton told me, but no, she stayed outside. The two men always closed the door.”

  “So, there was no one else in the meeting except for Mr. Blackton, Garson Talmadge and, of course, the firm’s file on Garson Talmadg
e.”

  “Not exactly, the files are kept behind my desk. When Mr. Blackton needed the file he would buzz me.”

  “Did that happen during most of the visits?”

  “Mr. Blackton liked to make his clients feel like they were visiting with a friend. He kept the business trappings to a minimum. He even cleared off his desk. Then if he needed anything because of what the client and he discussed, he would ask me to bring it in. He does that with several of his real regular clients. I think they like it that way.”

  “And what did Clarice do while she waited? Read magazines? Talk with you?”

  “All of that. Sometimes she would go out shopping close by, but mostly she sat and read from her e-reader, sometimes they were your books, Mr. Kile. Oh, and once, she went downstairs to get the men a latte at the gourmet coffee shop in the lobby.”

  After I got her to agree to call me Matt, I asked, “Only once?”

  “Well, yes. After they left that day, Mr. Blackton reminded me they were clients and that I should go to get the coffee, not Mrs. Talmadge.”

  “And did you do that very often?”

  “Every time they came in, after Mr. Blackton told me to be sure and do so.”

  “And who watched the office while you were gone? That must have taken what, fifteen minutes or so?”

  “About that long, yes. I’d put the phones on the recorder, you know, ‘we’re with other clients at the moment, please leave your number and a brief message,’ like that. But most of the time the phone didn’t ring. Mr. Blackton has a very select clientele. He doesn’t get a lot of calls. I like that part of the job.”

  I smiled. “So, often Clarice Talmadge was left in the office alone for fifteen minutes … about?”

  “Well, yes, in the front office, but Mr. Blackton was in his office.”

  “With Garson Talmadge with the door closed. Correct?”