“You think he set it up that way? He knew Scipio was going to do it and made sure he covered himself?”
“I think it was coincidence.”
“Because it’s hardly incriminating, having an alibi.”
“No.”
“Any more than it’s incriminating not having an alibi for the other two murders.”
“True.”
“But we’ve left one out, haven’t we? The abortion guy. Except he’d hate to be called that, wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’d much rather be known as the anti-abortion guy.”
“Protector of the unborn,” I said.
“Roswell Berry. Killed not here in nasty old New York but halfway across the country in the tele-marketing capital of America.”
“Omaha?”
“You didn’t know that about Omaha? Whenever there’s an ad on a cable channel, a twenty-fourhour eight hundred number for you to order a Vegematic Pocket Fisherman CD of Roger Whittaker’s greatest hits, nine times out of ten the person who takes your order is sitting in an office in Omaha. Did Adrian have an alibi when Berry got killed?”
“Yes, he did.”
His eyebrows went up. “Really? That sinks your whole theory, doesn’t it?”
“No,” I said, “it’s the closest thing I’ve got to hard evidence, and it’s strong enough to have brought me here tonight. See, Adrian did have an alibi for Berry’s murder. And it’s full of holes.”
“He went to Philadelphia,” I said. “Rode down and back on the Metroliner, had a seat reserved both ways in the club car. Charged the ticket to his American Express card.”
“Where’d he stay in Philly?”
“At the Sheraton near Independence Hall. He was there three nights, and again he used his Amex card.”
“And meanwhile Roswell Berry was being murdered in Omaha.”
“That’s right.”
“Which is what, two thousand miles away?”
“More or less.”
“Don’t make me dig,” he said. “This would appear to clear Adrian. How does it implicate him?”
“Here’s what I think he did,” I said. “I think he went to Philly and checked into the hotel and unpacked a bag. Then I think he took his briefcase and caught a cab to the airport, where he paid cash and showed ID in the name of A. Johnson. He flew to Omaha via Milwaukee on Midwest Express. He registered at the Hilton as Allen Johnson, showing a credit card in that name when he checked in but paying cash when he left. He got there in plenty of time to kill Berry and he got out before the body was found.”
“And flew back to Philadelphia,” Ray said. “And packed his bag and paid his hotel bill and got on the train.”
“Right.”
“And you’ve got nothing that places him in Philadelphia during the time that our Mr. Johnson was either in or en route to Omaha.”
“Nothing,” I said. “No phone calls on his hotel bill, no meals charged, nothing at all to substantiate his presence in the city except that he was paying for a hotel room.”
“I don’t suppose there was a maid who would remember if the bed had been slept in.”
“This long after the fact? The only way she’d remember is if she slept in it with him.”
“Matt, why’d he go to Philly? You’ll say to set up an alibi, I understand that much, but what was his ostensible purpose?”
“To keep some appointments, evidently. He had four or five of them listed on his desk calendar.”
“Oh?”
“Times and last names. I don’t think they were real appointments. I think they were there for show. I checked the names against his Rolodex and couldn’t find them. More to the point, I checked his phone bills, home and office. The only call to Philly that fits the time frame was the one he made to the Sheraton to book his room.”
He thought about it. “Suppose he was seeing somebody in Philadelphia. A married woman. He calls her from a pay phone because—”
“Because her husband might check Adrian’s phone records?”
He started over. “He can’t call her at all,” he said. “She has to call him, and that’s why there are no calls to her on his phone bill. The appointments on his calendar are with her. The names are phony so no one can glance at his calendar and recognize her name. He goes there and never leaves his room, she visits him when she can, and somebody else named Johnson flies out to Omaha and back, not because he’s Will but because he wants to discuss investments with Warren Buffet.”
“And Adrian stays in his room all that time and never orders a sandwich from room service? Or eats the mixed nuts from the mini bar?”
I went over it again, letting him raise objections, knocking them down as he raised them.
“Allen Johnson,” he said. “Is that right? Allen?”
“Allen at the Hilton, just the initial at the airlines counter.”
“If you’d found a wallet full of identification in that name in the top drawer of Adrian’s desk, I’d say you had something.”
“He could have it tucked away in his closet,” I said, “or stashed it in a safe-deposit box. My guess is he got rid of it once he knew he wouldn’t need it anymore.”
“And when was that? When he got back from Omaha?”
“Or when he wrote the letter designating himself as Will’s last victim. Or later. It would be nice if it showed up on a list of recent cyanide purchasers.”
“Where would you find a list like that?”
“You’d have to compile it, which is what someone very likely did once the autopsy results confirmed cyanide as the cause of Adrian’s death. We can be sure his own name didn’t show up on the list, or we’d have read headlines about it. He’d have thought of that. If he needed to show ID in order to buy cyanide, he’d have made sure it was in another name.”
“And he’d have felt safe enough using Allen Johnson again.”
“Unless he’d already destroyed it, yes. I don’t imagine he’d be overly concerned about someone putting the two Johnsons together, one from a hotel in Omaha and the other from a poison-control ledger in New York.”
“No.”
He excused himself, and came back saying how lucky he was—there had been no one lurking in the bathroom with a garrote.
“Though I wouldn’t have made his list,” he said, “if only because he already had a criminal lawyer on it. Hell of an eclectic list he came up with, wouldn’t you say?”
“Very much so.”
“A sexual psychopath, a Mafia boss, a right-to-lifer, and a black rabble-rouser. All along everybody’s been trying to find the common denominator. You’d think it would become apparent when you know who did it, but it’s still hard to spot.”
“He only really needed a reason for the first one,” I said, “and he had that. There he was, brooding over his role in Richie Vollmer’s release, and McGraw’s column stirred him to action. At that point he very likely intended just to commit one single act of murder.”
“And then what happened?”
“My guess is he found out he liked it.”
“Got a thrill out of it, you mean? Middle-aged lawyer all of a sudden finds out he’s got the soul of a psychopath?”
I shook my head. “I don’t imagine he suddenly blossomed as a thrill killer. But I think he found it satisfying.”
“Satisfying.”
“I think so, yes.”
“Killing people who had it coming, making the world a better place for it. That what you mean?”
“Something like that.”
“I suppose it could be satisfying,” he said. “Especially for a man who’s under a death sentence himself. ‘What can I do to improve the world before I leave it? Well, I can take that son of a bitch off the boards. There, I may not live forever, but at least I outlived you, you bastard.’”
“That’s the idea. The first one’s Richie. The second one’s because he wants to do it again, so he picks someone else the law can’t lay a finger on. He’s had some exposure to Patsy Salerno, enough to form a strong negative
opinion of the man.”
“And after that?”
“I would think the motives thinned out as he went along. Numbers three and four were similarly untouchable. Roswell Berry had clearly incited acts that led to the deaths of physicians performing abortions, and the law couldn’t lay a glove on him. I don’t suppose there was a personal element in it, unless Adrian knew one of the doctors or had strong feelings on the subject of abortion rights.”
“His sister,” Ray said suddenly.
“His sister? I didn’t think he had any brothers and sisters.”
“He told me about her once,” he said. “A long time ago, back when he used to put away a lot more than one drink a day. He liked those single-malt scotches even then, though I couldn’t tell you the brand.” He grinned suddenly. “I can remember the taste, though. Isn’t that a surprise? We were both about half lit and he told me about his sister. She was two or three years older than Adrian. She was away at college when she died, and Adrian was in his last year of high school.”
I thought I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway. “What did she die of?”
“Blood poisoning,” he said. “One of those infections that goes through you like wildfire. That was all they told him at the time. It was years later before he got the whole story from his mother. She wouldn’t tell him until after his father died, and of course you can figure it out now.”
“Yes.”
“Septicemia following a back-street abortion. Did it transform Adrian into a crusader for abortion rights? Not that you’d notice. Maybe he wrote out a check once in a while, or voted for or against a candidate because of his stand on the issue, but he didn’t sign a lot of petitions and open letters, and I never saw him out on Fifth Avenue picketing St. Patrick’s.”
“But when it came time to draw up a little list—” He nodded. “Sure. Why not? ‘This one’s for you, Sis.’” He stifled a yawn. “Funny,” he said. “I never got tired when I drank. It was always the easiest thing in the world to talk the night away.”
“I’ll go home and let you get some sleep.”
“Sit down,” he said. “We’re not through yet. Anyway, all we need is a little more coffee.”
“You don’t even begin to have what you could call proof,” Ray Gruliow said. “It’s far too little for an indictment, let alone a conviction.”
“I realize that.”
“All of which is moot, admittedly, given that the defendant is no longer among the living.” He settled back in his seat. “And you weren’t trying to sell it to a jury anyway, were you? I’m the guy you want to buy it.”
“And?”
“And I suppose I’m sold.”
“You could turn up enough evidence,” I said, “once you had a ton of guys with badges looking for it. Print up a few dozen photos of Adrian and show them to people at airports and hotels and you’ll find someone who remembers him. Pull NYNEX’s records of local calls made from his home and office phones. He probably made most of his calls from pay phones, but there may be some calls that tie in with some of Will’s activities. Go through his apartment and his office with the kind of detailed search I didn’t have the time or authority for and who knows what kind of hard evidence you’ll find.”
“So what’s the question?”
“The question is what do I do with this sleeping dog.”
“Traditionally, you’re supposed to let them lie.”
“I know.”
“Adrian’s dead, and Will’s officially retired. He said so in his last letter. What did he do, drop that in the mail on his way out of the courtroom?”
“It looks like it.”
“Wrote the letter, put a stamp on it, carried it around with him. Then his trial’s wrapped up, with his client conveniently copping a plea, and it’s time to throw in the towel. So he mails the letter and goes home and plays out the last scene.”
“Calls me first,” I said.
“Calls you first and says he wishes he had more time. Then goes out and makes sure his bodyguard’s watching when he takes his last drink and kisses the carpet. That business about the wrong zip code on the letter to the News. You think that was to delay the letter?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You couldn’t know it would work. With the volume of mail the paper gets, there’s ample opportunity for some clerk somewhere along the way to spot the letter and redirect it into the right slot. I just think he got the zip wrong.”
“I guess he had things on his mind.” He turned to me, his eyes probing mine. “You know what I think? I think you have to take what you’ve got and hand it to the cops.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because otherwise they’ll be running down false trails and barking up wrong trees for months on end. How many men do you suppose they’ve got assigned to Will?”
“No idea.”
“A substantial number, though.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, you could let them waste their time,” he said, “on the assumption that it would keep them from making trouble for somebody else, but I don’t even know if that’s true. Who knows how many lives they’re going to turn inside out looking for Will?” He yawned. “But there’s a more basic consideration. Who’s your client? How do you best serve his interests?”
“The only client I’ve had has been Adrian.”
“Well, you haven’t resigned and he hasn’t fired you. I’d say he’s still your client.”
“According to that line of reasoning, I ought to let it lie.”
He shook his head. “You’re missing something, Matt. Why did Adrian hire you?”
“I wouldn’t take any payment for advising him on how to go about protecting himself. I suppose this was his way of paying me for my time.”
“What did he engage you to do?”
“To investigate the whole case. I told him I couldn’t be expected to accomplish much.” I remembered something. “He alluded to my tendency to stay with a case. Stubbornness, you could call it.”
“You could indeed. Don’t you see? He wanted you to solve it. He didn’t want to leave loose ends. He wanted to baffle everybody, he wanted the audience holding its breath when the curtain went down. But then, after a decent interval, he wants a chance to come out and take a bow. And that’s where you come in.”
I thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why not just leave a letter to be delivered a certain amount of time after his death? As far as that goes, let’s remember that we’re talking about a multiple murderer with delusions of grandeur. Do you really think you can read his mind?”
“Throw all that out, then. The hell with what he wanted and what he didn’t want. You’re a detective. It’s who you are and it’s what you do. That’s why you stayed with it and that’s why you solved it.”
“If I’ve solved it.”
“And that’s why you’ll sit down with your friend Durkin tomorrow and tell him what you’ve got.”
“Because it’s who I am and what I do.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m afraid you’re stuck with it.”
16
The phone rang the next morning while we were having breakfast. Elaine answered it, and it was TJ, checking to see if she wanted him to spell her at the shop. She talked with him, then said, “Hang on,” and passed me the phone.
“It ain’t the peach pits,” he said. “You got to crack the pits, and there’s this kernel inside.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Talkin’ ‘bout cyanide, Clyde. Like he put in the scotch bottle? I can’t say if you could kill yourself eatin’ peach kernels, but there was a dude did it with apricots. Didn’t eat but fifteen or twenty of ’em, and that was enough.”
“Apricot kernels, you mean.”
There was a pause, and I could picture his eyes rolling. “If you could die from eatin’ fifteen or twenty apricots, don’t you think they’d make ’em put a warnin’ on the package? Dude cracked open the pits, ate
the kernels, an’ that was his last meal.”
“And it was suicide?”
“Couldn’t find out for sure. Could be he was tryin’ to cure cancer. There’s this drug they make outta apricot kernels, and you’ve got people swearin’ it works and people swearin’ it don’t. Laetrile? Might be I ain’t pronouncin’ it right.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“So this dude who ate the kernels, could be he was on a do-it-yourself Laetrile project. But we was wonderin’ if you could kill yourself that” way, eatin’ peach pits, an’ if fifteen or twenty’s all it takes, I guess the answer’s yes, at least with apricots. Assumin’ you fool enough to try.”
Even the Wicked: A Matthew Scudder Novel (Matthew Scudder Mysteries) Page 21
