by H. B. Berlow
The woman who glided down the steps was in her late forties, clear skin without wrinkles but with a certain weariness. She wore a flowing gown and her shoulders were covered with a lace shawl. She was attractive enough to be one of her own employees. She held out her hand waiting for attention. I accommodated her.
“I assume you gentleman are here on your business and not for mine.”
“Officer Baron Witherspoon of the Arkansas City Police Department.”
With the wave of her arm, she invited us to sit in the chairs while she sat on the sofa. It was the same gesture as the young colored girl. They all had been trained in the propriety of charm.
“Sherry?” she offered.
“No thank you, ma’am.” She poured herself a glass. I don’t think he realized it but Ronald tugged at his collar as if in a noose.
“Something wrong, officer?” she asked him. There was a whimsical coyness in her tone.
“Officer Roché is not used to such establishments.”
“And you are?”
“I was in the war.”
She lifted her glass in a toast to my assumed heroism.
“Have you discovered who murdered my girls?”
“Not yet. We are working very hard on this case. Can you tell me something about the girls? Did they live here?”
“They could have. They chose not to.” There was the bitter disappointment of a parent emerging. She looked away for a moment, perhaps blaming herself. “I understood completely. Young ladies need a sense of independence.”
“What can you tell me about the night each of them was killed?”
“Aurora left very late. She was, well, entertaining a couple of visiting college football players. They had played against Wichita University, lost, and became so inconsolable they sought out the comforts to be found in this house.” I smiled realizing there were many ways to describe the acts between a man and a woman, some of which didn’t admit to illegal acts. “One young man waited on the other who was with Aurora. They were busy for a good long time.”
“Inconsolable as you say,” I reminded her.
“They left shortly before midnight and Aurora shortly thereafter.”
“The young men. Were they angry or upset?”
“No, Officer Witherspoon. On the contrary. They felt much better upon their departure. Regrettably, Aurora was killed that night.”
“And Angela?”
“She told me she was feeling poorly. I believe it was a womanly thing. She left before the evening began. It was still daylight.”
“Did she have any visitors who were belligerent or acting mean toward her?”
“Angela was one of the sweetest young girls I had ever known. Always a smile on her face. Never an unkind word.”
I stood up and Ronald followed my cue. I reached for her hand to kiss it again.
“Thank you for your time. We’ll see our way out.”
Ronald walked ahead of me quickly, almost tripping over his feet.
“Officer Witherspoon?”
I turned gallantly. Something about the house and Miss Becky made me feel like a knight of the Round Table.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Why are you up here all the way from Arkansas City?”
“I have experience in these matters.”
For the first time, she looked closely at me, saw my scars, looked into my eyes, probably remembering my comment about the war. We both dealt in matters of the flesh but from different perspectives. I knew of hers; she did not know of mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Standing with my hands on my hips, I gazed at the big beautiful house, trying to imagine what kind of man would look upon it and its residents as something to defile in such a vicious way. While it might not have been a place I would have frequented, the evil perpetrated upon the women made no sense. It suddenly dawned on me I had assumed a man was responsible for the killings in Ark City so now I would have to start my thought process all over again. If I kept making assumptions it could result in more deaths.
I instructed Ronald to bring me back to the station house so I could review the files completely. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take them home as I did in my own town. He took me to an empty office just down from the detectives’ room figuring I wouldn’t want to spar with those boys all over again. He retrieved the file and brought it to me. There was a desk with a lamp and some file cabinets. It was an interior office with no windows and had the smell of disuse and abandonment. It was perfect for someone who wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.
“Did you learn anything from Carson Stankey or Miss Becky?” he asked, his head cocked like a puppy dog.
“They didn’t seem to care, probably afraid of getting in trouble. But they’re both scared.”
“Of what?”
“A monster.”
Just as I had done three years ago, I reviewed every piece of evidence. I looked at every photo of the women who were killed, all stabbed in various parts of their torso, almost all near their abdomen and below. I read every medical report. There was a map of the city with markings indicating the locations. The only thing striking was the first woman was not a prostitute of any kind but a young girl who worked in a laundry. She was pretty like the rest with long blonde hair, a slight shade of red in it. Soft thin lips and freckles on a pale face indicated this girl was barely twenty. She looked nothing like the made-up young women who had far more world weariness. There was nothing to connect her to the others. I also didn’t see the hatred like I did in Natalie’s victims. A smash to the skull. Multiple stabbings to incapacitate. A final slice to show disrespect. The medical examiner’s reports indicated “one or two slow incisions with some upward movement or twisting within the thoracic cavity.” From what I could gather in the photos and drawings, the killer stood facing his victim, stabbed them in the stomach area likely unexpectedly, and either drew the knife up toward the heart or twisted it within the confines of the point of entry. This indicated precision and a controlled process. If there was anger, it was being suppressed. Carson Stankey was a brute who played the part of a gentleman. If aroused, he would act more like a wild stallion that hadn’t been broke. Miss Becky, to my mind, was the kind of lady who would use poison so she could watch a girl die slowly and painfully before her. The only thing I guessed was this killer had somehow enjoyed these kills as they give him (or her) an undefined pleasure. If I could figure out what that pleasure was, I might have a better idea of who was behind all of this.
The frustrating thing was I was alone on this. While I had the obedient police liaison, the detectives actually working the case, the police chief, and more than likely everyone all the way up to the mayor were not going to lift a finger to help the disfigured intruder I represented.
Unbeknownst to me, it was getting late. A room without a window is not the ideal way for an obsessed man to tell time. Fortunately, Officer Roché knocked politely on the door and entered quietly.
“Got it all solved?” His smile was big, warm, and friendly. It was the first time today he didn’t appear scared of his own shadow.
“Not quite.” I was tired, the tone of my voice rather dull. I didn’t mean to take away his good mood but my mind was spinning in all directions.
“The chief got you a room at the Carey House. I can take you there.”
“I’ve got my own car.”
“Oh, yeah. Sure. I forgot.”
I stood up and stretched, realizing I had been sitting in one position for the better part of three hours. I pushed the file across the desk toward him and started to walk out.
“I’ll need you tomorrow.”
“Great. Yes, I’ll make myself available.”
He gave me brief directions, indicating it was on the corner of Douglas and St. Francis, certain I wouldn’t miss it. As he walked me out, he told me the story of how Carrie Nation came in with her hatchet and chopped at the bar and threw a big rock at the mirror on the wall, smashing it loudly. All this
in the name of temperance.
“Well,” I commented, “everyone seems to have something they’re against.”
“What are you against, Officer Witherspoon?”
“Murder.”
He was right about it being easy to find. The clerk reminded me of Phil Garmes but only swarthy like an imitation Valentino. The pencil thin moustache looked more like a caterpillar on his lip and there was enough grease in his hair to light an oil lamp. He did, however, find my reservation quickly, handed me my key, and allowed me to walk off mumbling my thanks without spitting at me.
The room was spacious but my eyes found only the bed. I sat down enjoying its comfort then reached down in my bag for a bottle of hooch I brought along. Sometimes I still had headaches and sometimes I still had dreams. I figured this case was going to bring them both back and they did.
I started to realize I had the ability to read these reports and figure out the person behind it, almost as though I were looking through their eyes. Any other policeman’s stomach would be churning. It was times like these I doubted my own sanity. All the years working with Dr. Brenz and coming to terms with who I was, had been born, and who I had become. Most days I was actually proud of myself.
I guess Natalie rattled me a bit, perhaps because I thought I could possibly settle down with her. When the opportunity passed, I was lost again, figuring I would be a cop until I wasn’t anymore, and watching my face sag and the scars become sad bitter reminders of a painful transformation.
Before I knew it, half the bottle was gone.
Chapter Twenty
The morning felt like a dream. Waking up in a different bed in a strange room, the light shining through lace curtains and reflecting off polished bed posts all made me feel as though I had died and gone to some kind of heaven but not anything I was aware of or expected. It was almost exactly the same thing in the hospital in France, face wrapped like an Egyptian mummy, little slits left for my eyes to try to focus on my surroundings, arms tied down to the bed to prevent me from tearing off the bandages. On this morning, my arms simply flailed as I saw Jake Hickey walking toward me and turn into Natalie Dixon right before she became Baron Witherspoon who whispered “Eric, it’s your turn now.”
My head wasn’t pounding but it was spinning. Drawing back the lace curtains revealed an early Wichita, Kansas morning on Douglas Ave. It was my turn now.
The diner I stopped in for breakfast was nothing like Daisy Mae’s. There was no one like Dixie behind the counter, and the looks I got made it feel like Halloween. I gobbled a helping of biscuits and gravy, washing it down with dark mud-thick black coffee and left. I was yearning for home.
I went to the detective’s room to meet with Officer Roché. Detective Rackler was walking toward his desk, a cup of coffee in one hand and a thick file in the other.
“So, you solve the case yet?”
It would have been easy to respond, almost too easy. Rackler was a bully, probably since grade school. He liked nothing more than to be on top in an argument, whether or not he was right. It was probably because he had hardly ever been right. He pushed and if you pushed back he won the fight before you even started. Detective Sells came into the room shortly after Rackler’s comment, his glance darting between us. He walked over to me calmly with an expectant look on his face. He didn’t have to ask anything but still expected an answer.
“I interviewed Carson Stankey and Miss Becky,” I said. “I don’t think they know anything.”
“That’s what I figured.” I wasn’t sure if he was validating my efforts or indicating his lack of faith in my abilities. “Now what?”
“Two more murders. Two more interviews.”
“You think you’re going to find something we didn’t?”
“Detective Sells, this is not a race or a game. I’m just doing what I was asked to do.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
He turned sharply and walked to his desk. Fortunately, my liaison came in and provided me with the excuse to leave.
“From now on,” I told Roché, “we meet in the other office. They don’t want my help, and I don’t need them getting in my way.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied with a smile. It was as though I were his big, older brother who was there to protect him. The truth was I cared less about another city’s horrific murders than I did my own reputation. I figured some politicians were turning up the heat. I had experienced it before. But why a seasoned vet like Sells would give in was beyond me. A couple of interviews, a thoughtful consideration, a detailed report was about all they were going to get from me.
Melinda Malone ran a theater group that was performing at the Holland Theater just down the street from the hotel where I was staying. Song and dance and comedic sketches filled the bill. The troupe was largely made up of newer performers, those looking to make it in the legitimate theater if only someone of importance were watching in the audience. The shock of the killing of one of her performers was not enough for her to cancel any shows. Malone had a sweet face, smooth skin, and clear blue eyes but those tightly pursed lips indicated she had the bite of a lioness. She was maybe a couple of years younger than me but she responded with a yawn of boredom and weariness.
The dancer with dreams of being a ballerina was a Russian émigré named Valeria Delsin. She was quiet, reserved, most likely a virgin, according to Malone. Delsin preferred a walk in the night air after a show, perhaps reminding her of the coolness of a Moscow evening. It was a quaint story, one I knew didn’t hold water. Show biz folks think everyone will fall for a line.
“They found her in an alley in back of the theater. Can you imagine that? She was nowhere to be found for the show the next night. I get all upset with her. And then, poof, they find her out back. Made me feel a bit uneasy. You know?”
I smiled because I had no response to her lack of compassion.
“Do you mind if I talk to the rest of the performers, stage hands, any one who might have seen her?”
“Knock yourself out.” She turned back to her clipboard, lit a cigarette, and blew out a plume of smoke. She was done with me.
The so-called star of the show was a guy named Sheppard ‘Shep’ Breckman who was trying awfully hard to be the next Russ Columbo, a hip jazz crooner who made the ladies swoon and the men want to be just like him, except without the dramatic and mysterious death. Breckman made an effort to come across as a well-educated Ivy League man with a touch of the bootlegger in him. At least to his way of thinking. What he didn’t know about gangsters could fill a library. He had a perfect haircut and an even more perfect manicure. There was oil in his voice, smooth and slippery. He made it clear in a conspiratorial way Miss Delsin was no dainty flower.
“I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I tried to make her but she wouldn’t tumble. She was looking for a sugar daddy to roll her in the clover. This idea of becoming a ballerina was starting to fade real fast.” His hand waved off the notion in a dismissive way.
“How do you mean?”
“Malone is a task master who delivers the charm when you sign up and then cracks the whip if you don’t carry your weight. You think you might get a shot at Broadway or Hollywood but the truth is we’re all just grist for the mill, brother. Except me, of course. I’ve got connections. A couple of more months here and I’m going where the lights are shining bright. Mark my word. Hey, you can say you knew me when.”
“I wish you all the luck in the world.” He was going to need a lot more than luck.
It appeared as though the first five dead women were something of a temptation, appearing as available to the killer but then perhaps something changed. The theory worked out well if you left out the laundress. My opinion was altered when we went to The Bar-B-Q Shack. From the outside it looked like a log cabin, something old settlers might have inhabited. The building was long and had tables with benches for seating and two sets of double doors in the back leading to the kitchen. The smell of smoke was imbedded into the wood. This family style res
taurant was owned by the late Tangerine Smith.
No one knew what her real first name was or her exact background. According to her main cook, Shaughnessy Burkett, she presented the attitude of a Texas Guinan without the “Hello, suckers!” greeting. She had a soft spot for little kids who came in with their families for a meal of brisket and beans and corn bread and iced tea. She would occasionally put on a Southern drawl and at other times sounded like a swell from the Big Apple.
Burkett was tall and skinny with a mop of blonde hair and glasses so thick they were probably made from Coke bottles. Perhaps they hid the tears of remembrance. He was trying to show a tough front, shoulders pulled back and chest puffed out, but no one would have been put off by this wretch of a man.
“I got no idea where she come from or how she made her money before. All’s I knows is she was good to everyone who worked here and everyone who et here.”
“Anybody ever mad at her?” I detected a tone of desperation in my voice.
“No, sir. Let’s say a guy or gal didn’t have no money to pay. She’d just say, ‘Hit me up the next time.’ Weren’t no reason for no one to be mad at her for nothin’.”
The way he told it, Tangerine Smith was a saint in a smokehouse.
The building was located up on North Lawrence Road almost out of the city limits. Tangerine was found in the back by the kitchen entrance. The report indicated the place had closed up and all the employees had left for the night. The last one to see her was a young gal named Shirley Meeks. She lived, if you could call it living, in a shack about a hundred yards from the restaurant. There was no running water or plumbing facilities and no electricity.
There was practically a shriek of fear when I rapped my knuckles on the door. The creature that opened it looked like a ghost or someone on the verge of death. Pale, sweaty, eyes red and drawn in, wearing a long sweater which completely covered her arms, and hair like a straw broom. Her lips were dry and cracked. It didn’t take much to figure she was an addict of some kind. The one thing she didn’t do was retreat in fear from my looks.
