The Gemini Agenda

by Michael McMenamin

  Mattie tried to draw Ted out on why he felt so strongly about this but he coldly cut her off. “Look, I don’t know why I brought it up and I’m sorry I did. Someone I knew died there. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  Changing the subject, they each recapped their day and Ted even agreed with her that Albert Stewart, the short, bald-headed Chief of Detectives in the Pittsburgh Police Department was a patronizing bastard. He hadn’t given them a thing, even off-the-record, except a smug lecture about the police not needing out of town reporters telling them how to do their job. Well, he had given them the address of the victim — Elizabeth Adams — in Mount Lebanon. But nothing more.

  The check arrived and, as Mattie reached for it, Hudson snatched it first. “Ted, this is my assignment. I’m the chief correspondent,” she said “and the expense account goes through me. Give me the check.”

  “Allow me my male pride, Mattie.” Hudson replied, flashing a smile. “If I don’t pay the check for dinner with a beautiful woman, I’ll look like a kept man. A gigolo even.”

  Mattie laughed as Ted slipped their waiter two twenty dollar bills. “You can pay me back later in my hotel room over a nightcap.”

  “Only in your dreams, Ted, only in your dreams.” she replied. “Just keep a running tab of your expenses each day and give them to me the next morning at breakfast.”

  Hudson grinned. “You’re the boss but you can’t blame a fella for trying.”

  Thursday, 13 May 1932

  MATTIE nibbled on a piece of bacon as she gave Ted his marching orders for the day. “Go down to Mount Lebanon. Question all her neighbors. Find out as much as you can about her background. The victims may have been randomly chosen but we need to find all we can about each one if we’re going to piece it all together. It’s a giant jigsaw puzzle but, unlike the police, we know there has to be a common thread. We just have to find what it is.”

  Hudson nodded. “Okay. I’m on it. May I have the automobile?”

  “Yes. I’m going to see the coroner first. Then I’m going to check some public records. Elizabeth Adams was a widow. But the article said her late husband George was a Pittsburgh native. His birth certificate may give us some leads. If they were married in Pittsburgh, their marriage certificate may give us even more. This is not going to be an easy story. Unless we get lucky, it may take weeks, if not months of work.”

  Hudson flashed her a dazzling smile. The man knew just how handsome he was. “The longer, the better, so far as I’m concerned. A day outside your presence is a like a day without sunshine.”

  Mattie sighed and shook her head. “You’re irrepressible.”

  “Most women say it’s one of my more redeeming qualities.”

  Mattie laughed. “I’ll bet they do. I’ll see you back here this afternoon.”

  Mattie’s morning did not prove fruitful. She had read the coroner’s report but her interview with the physician who performed the autopsy was no more illuminating than her conversation with Detective Stewart the day before. She had next reviewed birth certificates which had provided her, at least, with the identity and former address of the parents of the victim’s late husband. It was a lead she would have Hudson follow up tomorrow.

  After a quick cup of coffee at a diner, Mattie headed back into the bowels of the Pittsburgh bureaucracy to wade through marriage certificates. What had she been thinking when she agreed to take on this assignment? The story was superficially exciting. Eyeless bodies drained of blood. But she wasn’t a detective. Unless she got lucky, this assignment could take the rest of the spring and the summer too. She sighed. She wished Cockran were here.

  Mattie sat down at a table in the basement of the Allegheny County Archive Center and, within minutes, a clerk had brought her the file drawer containing the marriage certificates cataloged under “A.” Who would have guessed so many men with the surname of Adams had been married in Pittsburgh in the past thirty years?

  By lunchtime Mattie had not come across the marriage certificate for George and Elizabeth Adams. She wasn’t hungry, but she needed a break. She walked back to the William Penn; went up to her room and ordered a pot of tea. While she waited for the tea to arrive, she decided to call Cockran and get her daily phone call out of the way. She placed a call to the Donovan law offices but was told he was in court. Disappointed, she finished her tea and headed off to work. She left a message for Cockran to call her.

  Back at the archives, Mattie went through the records for over an hour and at 2 p.m., she finally found the marriage certificate for George Clark Adams and Elizabeth Ann Miller. Miller? That name rang a bell. Wasn’t one of the male victims named Miller, Mattie wondered? She picked up the canvas mail pouch at her feet which served as her briefcase and pulled out the file of clippings she had received from Hearst. She’d organized them by city and she quickly leafed through them. San Francisco, Chicago, Los Angeles, Denver, Cleveland.

  Yes, Mattie thought, Cleveland. James Roger Miller of Cleveland. According to the news clipping, James Miller’s body, eyeless and drained of blood, was discovered three days before the body of Elizabeth Miller Adams. Coincidence? Mattie didn’t believe much in coincidence. Could the victims somehow be related? Cleveland was next on their itinerary and she sure as hell would fly there the next morning and check it out. But, in the meantime, there was a certain Chief of Detectives of the Pittsburgh police force she intended to revisit.

  “I must see Chief of Detectives Stewart immediately,” Mattie said.

  “I’m sorry, Miss. Your name please? Do you have an appointment?” a very young brown-haired girl with a heart-shaped face asked as Mattie stood at her desk, towering over her.

  “McGary,” Mattie snapped. “The Hearst papers. I don’t have an appointment but he damn well better see me. Now.” Mattie gestured imperiously with her finger. “Move.”

  Seconds later, Mattie was standing in front of Detective Stewart’s desk. She thrust a photostat of the Adams-Miller marriage license at him. “Look at that. Your victim’s maiden name is Miller. Someone named Miller turned up dead in Cleveland that same week in the same condition. Eyeless and drained of blood. Were you aware of that?”

  Detective Stewart hesitated and didn’t meet Mattie’s eyes as he looked off into the distance. “Well, no, I wasn’t aware of that. But I hardly see the relevance.…”

  “Two people named Miller turn up dead in the same unusual condition only two hundred miles apart and you can’t see the connection? Are you daft?”

  Stewart stood up to his full five foot seven inches, placed his knuckles on his desk and looked up at Mattie, who was staring down at him. “You want to be a detective? Take a Goddamn civil service exam. Otherwise, lady, get the hell out of my office.”

  “You don’t think this is significant?” Mattie asked.

  Stewart narrowed his eyes. “Get the hell out of my office.”

  At dinner that night with Ted Hudson, Mattie was still furious at Detective Stewart’s reaction. “How the hell can he call himself a detective?” Mattie asked.

  Hudson was soothing, the voice of reason. “You’ve embarrassed him. That’s all. Don’t read any more into it. In his mind, you’re an amateur and you found something which may be of significance. Or it may be a coincidence. But you found it and he didn’t. Don’t judge him too harshly.”

  “Well, the hell with Detective Stewart,” Mattie said, as she sliced a piece of her veal chop, impaled it on her fork and looked at Hudson. “We’re flying to Cleveland first thing tomorrow morning and we’re damn well going to get to the bottom of this.”

  19.

  That Is Certainly Not My Husband

  New York City

  Thursday, 12 May 1932

  IT’S not that a client had never lied to Cockran before, he reflected as he rode in the back of the big green Packard on his way to court. They had. They always did. Never trust a client, his father had told him, and he didn’t. Still, he was surprised and he shouldn’t have been.

  Cochran repl
ayed the conversation he had with Ingrid yesterday afternoon after he had cooled down and they were back in the office.

  “You told me that you hadn’t had any affairs.” Cockran had said in an accusing tone.

  “It wasn’t really an affair. It was more like a one-night stand a year ago with a man I met at a reception given by the Swedish Consul General.”

  “So that was the only time?”

  “Well, I’ve had no other lovers, if that’s what you mean, and it was a one-night stand because the gentleman in question was returning to Europe the next day. I saw him again six weeks ago. He was staying for a day in America on business on his way to somewhere else. Wesley was in Germany that week, so I figured, why not?” She shook her head. “He was really good looking and even better in bed. Much better than Wesley. So when he telephoned me out of the blue last month, I accepted. I knew it was shameless of me but he had been such a good lover before that I couldn’t resist. I could tell you a lot more but I’m afraid I’m embarrassing you.”

  Well, yes, she was. This was much more than Cockran needed to know.

  “And you didn’t think your husband knew? Or suspected?”

  “Before now? No, he was out of the country both times.”

  “So, it was twice with one lover? Two one-night stands?”

  “Well, mornings too. It seemed a shame to waste them.”

  Cockran shook his head. Clients. “This is not good, Ingrid. I hope he was worth it.”

  Ingrid had given him a beautiful smile. “He was. Believe me, he was.”

  The only good thing that had happened after court was when he learned from Ingrid that her husband was not out of town as his lawyer had claimed.

  “He spent last night with that bimbo and I bet he’ll be there the rest of the week.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  “As I told you before, her name’s Pamela Powell. She has a one bedroom apartment at Park Avenue and 77th Street which she clearly can’t afford. One of my best friends from college lives in the building and she saw Wesley come in with her one night. The doorman told my friend everything else, including the regular nights that Wesley visits.”

  “How do you know he’ll be there tonight?” Cockran had asked.

  “That’s what Wesley’s chauffeur told the doorman yesterday and my girlfriend told me.”

  Cockran smiled. Courtesy of Bobby Sullivan and a photo lab open 24 hours a day, they now had some photographs of their own. It was going to be an interesting day.

  COCKRAN watched the Judge closely. Occasionally she raised her eyebrows as she leafed through the photographs Chester Bowles had given her, taking no more than a few seconds with each one. Twice, she looked over at Ingrid and then back to the photo before moving on. That was not a good sign. On the other hand, her face was relatively impassive. It did not register shock or disgust. In fact — but he could not be sure — he even thought he detected a barely perceptible smile at one of the photographs. Interesting. He wondered if he would be able to pick out which one had caused that sly little smile.

  Notwithstanding, Cockran was tense when Judge Perkins finished reviewing the photos, put them back in the brown envelope, and handed them to Cockran.

  “You and your client may examine these exhibits, Mr. Cockran. And then I will permit Mr. Bowles to question Mrs. Waterman as if on cross-examination.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Cockran said as he pulled out the photographs.

  Oh, my God, Cockran thought as he looked at the first one. Bobby Sullivan’s snapshots of Wesley Waterman cavorting the night before with his nubile young showgirl were good, but this glossy halftone was spectacular. Broad daylight and everything in focus as if she had been posing for a society magazine photo spread. A frontal shot of a naked Ingrid reaching out to her lover, her blonde hair around her shoulders, her firm high breasts, a narrow waist, voluptuous hips. Why would Waterman ever pass that up for a teenage showgirl?

  In the foreground of the photo and off to the right was a partial view of a toned male backside that displayed none of the sagging Cockran had seen in the naked photos of Waterman.

  Wordlessly, he handed the first photo to Ingrid and looked at the second. If Cockran had been embarrassed during Ingrid’s prior discussion of her sex life, that was nothing compared to now as he realized the truth of the Chinese saying that a picture was worth a thousand words. Ingrid was astride her lover, hands pressing down on his chest, her mouth parted, her head thrown back. He caught himself thinking of Mattie and how beautiful she was when he looked up into her face while they were making love. Ingrid’s face had that same incandescent quality.

  Cockran quickly passed the second exposure over to Ingrid. He didn’t want the Judge to think he was lingering over any one of the revealing exhibits and, notwithstanding his embarrassment, he hoped the Judge couldn’t tell. He skimmed the remaining images, noticing only the contrast between these and the ones Bobby Sullivan had taken of her husband. It was clear that the photographer had been instructed to keep Ingrid’s face visible in every shot because you never got a good look at who her lover was. Big, blond and well-muscled, but that was all you could see. Never his face. Only her face and her breathtaking body.

  Cockran passed the last exhibit over and Ingrid’s face remained impassive as it had through every photograph. She was acting as if these were nothing more than unremarkable family portraits. She had followed his instructions. To the letter. Appearing in court was like being on stage. You had to assume every movement you made, every small gesture, would be noticed and interpreted by a jury or a judge. He had to admire her self-control.

  But then Ingrid surprised him. She casually leaned over. “These photographs? They’re really quite good. Can I have copies made?”

  Cockran almost swallowed his tongue. Had he kept his placid demeanor intact in front of the Judge? He hoped so. But inside he was grinning. Ingrid was one hell of a woman.

  Sarah Steinberg put the last exhibit back into the envelope and handed it to Judge Perkins who nodded to Bowles. “You may cross-examine the plaintiff, Mr. Bowles.”

  Bowles handed all the exhibits to Ingrid. “Mrs. Waterman. These have been marked for identification as Defendant’s Exhibits A through J. Are they photographs of you?”

  “They are,” Ingrid replied, her head erect and looking directly at the Judge.

  “And who is the man in these pictures?”

  Ingrid paused as Cockran had instructed her, and a thoughtful expression came across her face, her brow ever so slightly narrowed. “It’s not important who he is.”

  “Listen, lady,” Bowles snarled. “I decide what’s important, not you. Tell us who he is.”

  “No,” Ingrid calmly replied, once more making eye contact with the Judge.

  “But it’s not your husband, is it?” Bowles asked.

  Ingrid gave a slightly repressed smile, implying that, were she not in court, she would grin broadly. “No, Mr. Bowles, that is certainly not my husband.”

  Bowles sat down. “No further questions, Your Honor. But based on her testimony we ask that you deny her motion and grant my client’s instead.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bowles,” Judge Perkins said. “Do wish to question the witness and will you have any more evidence or testimony, Mr. Cockran?”

  Before last night, Cockran hadn’t intended to introduce any snapshots they obtained of Waterman and his show girl at this early stage. He had thought it unnecessary overkill with this judge, based upon what Sarah had told him about her reputation. Bowles’ unexpected exposure— literally—of Ingrid’s love life altered the landscape dramatically. Mere allegations of adultery in the complaint would not be sufficient to counter those explicit photographs. For Cockran knew if he didn’t get his temporary restraining order today, Waterman would have more than ample opportunity to place the bulk of his assets outside the jurisdiction of the Court and Ingrid’s reach. That was not going to happen if Cockran had anything to say about it. It was payback time for Wat
erman having sent his MID thugs to mug him the other night.

  “No more questions for this witness, your Honor, but Plaintiff calls Robert Michael Sullivan.” Cockran walked into the courtroom where Bobby Sullivan had been patiently waiting for the past hour and a half and motioned for him to join them. Once in the Judge’s chambers, Cockran directed him to the empty chair beside Chet Bowles. Sullivan stared down at Bowles before he took his seat, and Bowles quickly averted his eyes. Cockran smiled. Sullivan did have that effect on people he met for the first time.

  Sullivan was sworn in as a witness and Cockran took him through the story of how he came to be in Pamela Powell’s apartment on Wednesday evening. In his retelling, however, Sullivan did not volunteer how he had secured Pamela’s cooperation; or that she was no longer a member of the chorus line at the Latin Quarter; or that she would be appearing for the first time tonight on Broadway in the Gershwin brothers’ latest musical hit, Of Thee I Sing, in which Bobby’s patron Owney Madden had an undisclosed interest.

  After that, Cockran handed Sullivan the photographs he had taken last night. As with the images of Ingrid, the Judge viewed them first and passed each one on to Bowles who, in turn, handed them back to Cockran. Cockran focused on Judge Perkins’ facial expressions as she viewed each new exhibit. The fifth one produced the exact reaction from the Judge he was hoping for. She frowned. All six feet four inches of Wesley Waterman and his sagging backside was wedged between the widespread thighs of an eighteen year old Pamela Powell who, without her make-up, didn’t look a day over sixteen. The pigtails Pamela was wearing certainly helped convey that impression and Cockran had to hand it to Bobby Sullivan for coming up with that suggestion.

  After Bobby had identified the last photograph, Cockran looked at the Judge. “No further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”