Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  “Talmadge.”

  “Well, that’s a suburb of Akron. I have a faint recollection of looking it up in the Akron phone book.”

  She reached up to a shelf on which she had a number of phone directories. She selected one marked “Akron,” leafed through the pages and pointed to a line. “Here it is Graves, Marlon. It gives the address.”

  Maharos said, “We’d like to keep this letter. Is that all right?”

  Emma said, “Certainly. I was about to have it destroyed anyway. Is that going to help you find whoever did that awful thing to Mr. Gibson? He was such a hard worker, and a wonderful boss.”

  “It’s going to be a big help. Thanks.”

  On the way back to the sheriff’s office, Vandergrift said, “This is the first solid lead we’ve had since we started working on the Gibson case. Our office had just about written it off as a homicide-robbery by some transient we’d never see again. Now we know he met Graves. That’s a start.”

  Maharos was slumped in the passenger’s seat, his hat tipped forward over his eyes. “Yeah. Now all we have to do is go back year-by-year and find out everything Gibson did since he was a kid.”

  Vandergrift let it slide. “If Gibson knew Graves, maybe he knew the other three you’re working on: Hamberger, Horner or Burnstein.” Her voice had risen two decibels. She was now enthusiastically in the hunt.

  “Okay. You check with Mrs. Hamberger and Burnstein’s—uh, wife. I’ll work on the Horner end.”

  “You got it. Give me your extension at Youngstown P.D.”

  He gave her a card. “Keep in touch.”

  This was going to be the start of something, he felt.

  FIFTEEN

  Detective Larry Wagner held his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone and yelled across the squad room. “Hey, Al. Some woman wants to talk to you. On three.”

  Maharos punched the illuminated button on his phone. “Maharos.”

  “Hi, Al. This is Karen Vandergrift.”

  Maharos’ pulse rate zoomed. Since he had left her in Canton, three days before, he had spent more idle minutes than he would admit, thinking about her. Cozy, sexy fantasies. He had tried to push them from his mind. Hell, she was probably happily married to some handsome hunk around her own age. He did some mental arithmetic but developed a block trying to subtract thirty-one or thirty-two from forty-six, his age.

  He felt his voice tighten. “Hello. How’re you coming along?”

  “Let me give you an update. I talked to Lance Harwood in the Metro Detention Center. He never heard of Gibson. He’s still peed off that they won’t set bail for him. Hey, that lawyer, Lavant, is something out of a comic strip.

  “Anyway, I just got back from New Philadelphia. Mrs. Hamberger didn’t know anything about Gibson. So far two strikes, no hits.”

  Maharos said, “George Horner’s widow didn’t know Gibson—or any of the others. Strike three.”

  Vandergrift said, “Dr. Hanson went back over the autopsy reports of Burnstein and Gibson. He’s coming in this afternoon to go over the whole thing with McAllister and me. One of the reasons I wanted to get in touch with you is to ask if you would fax us the autopsy reports and the pictures of the gunshot wounds in the cases you’ve been following. We’d like to compare them with what we’ve got.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll bring them myself. What time’s your meeting with Hanson?”

  “Three-thirty. Hey, that will be great!”

  “See you.”

  Maharos was in the Men’s Room adjoining the detective’s locker room, removing his five o’clock shadow at one-thirty when Frank Fiala walked in. Maharos glanced at Fiala’s reflection in the mirror and went on shaving.

  “You never did that for me when I was your partner,” said Fiala.

  Maharos went on shaving.

  Fiala said, “Let me guess: Your Canton partner is gorgeous.”

  Maharos rinsed the razor.

  Fiala said, “…Not only is she gorgeous, but she’s crazy for bald-headed older men.”

  Maharos dried the razor.

  “…Especially if they are of the Greek persuasion.”

  Maharos dried his face and splashed Canoe on his freshly-shaven cheeks.

  Fiala went on, “If I didn’t have to take a leak, I’d kiss you myself.”

  Maharos slipped on his shirt and started walking out. He said, “Don’t forget to wash your hands when you’re finished.”

  He was at his desk putting on his suit jacket, when he saw Ed Bragg beckoning to him through the glass partition that separated the lieutenant’s office from the large squad room. He stood at the open door of Bragg’s office. “Calling me, Ed?”

  “Yeah. You in a hurry?” He sniffed the air. “What’ja do, raid Hattie’s whorehouse again?”

  Maharos rubbed his chin. “I didn’t get a chance to shave before I came on duty.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a couple of minutes. I’m going to—“ He noticed a figure slumped in the easy chair in front of Bragg’s desk. “Oh. I didn’t see you. How are you, Shelly?”

  Sheldon Ehrlich covered the police beat for the Youngstown Herald. He was a good investigative reporter, which was to say he was a pain in the ass to the men and women of the Youngstown P.D.

  Ehrlich waved a hand in Maharos’ direction.

  Bragg said, “Shelly and I were just jawing about the Horner investigation.” He gave Maharos a hard look. “I told him that you were handling it.”

  Maharos caught Bragg’s signal. He turned to the reporter. “Yeah. Well, there’s not much I can tell you. We’re still tracking down leads.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Huh?”

  “You saying there’s nothing to tell, or there’s something but you can’t talk about it?” He wasn’t going to let Maharos off easily.

  “Believe me, when there’s something the public should know, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

  “Who’s going to be the judge of that, you or me?”

  Bragg held up a hand, “Hey, Shelly, lay off the guy, for Christ sake. He’s got a job to do.”

  Ehrlich sat up in the chair. “So do I. I’ve been hearing all kinds of stories that Maharos is running around the countryside asking people about homicide cases that are out of your jurisdiction.”

  Maharos scowled. “Where’d you get your information?”

  “I’ve got sources. Am I warm?”

  At this stage in his investigation, Maharos was trying to keep it out of the headlines. He knew that public knowledge of a serial killer’s presence would only cause confusion. Every kook in the country would climb out of the woodwork and claim responsibility for everything from the Lindberg kidnapping to Judge Crater’s disappearance. Yet, he could not tell an outright lie. When and if he finally caught up with whoever it was he was looking for, he wanted to maintain his credibility.

  “Shelly, don’t press me. You know police work well enough to know that we’ve got to have breathing room.”

  “Background?”

  “That’s all I’ll say.”

  The reporter turned to the lieutenant. “Ed?”

  Bragg shrugged and turned his palms up. His portrayal of innocence was Academy Award caliber.

  The four of them were hunched over Sheriff McAllister’s desk, peering down at the array of Polaroids. Dr. Harry Hanson squinted through a small hand lens. “There’s no question. The placement of the wounds in all of these is identical. There are powder burns around all the neck wounds so the gun barrel must have been placed very close to the skin. The skin of the lower entry sites, that is, those between the shoulder blades, was protected by the clothing each of the victims wore.”

  Hanson went on to explain that the bullets took somewhat different paths once they entered the bodies of the victims. The reason was that when they hit bony structures, the missiles were thrown off course. The result was the same in all: death.

  Vandergrift said, “Dr. Hanson, how easy is it to place a bullet wound in exact
ly the same place, like it was done here?”

  “Not easy at all. It takes someone with some knowledge of anatomy. There are landmarks, of course. But you have to know what to look for.”

  McAllister said, “You mean our suspect may be a doctor?”

  “Well, sure, someone in the medical field would have this information, of course. But I can think of others, too. For example, I’ve got a lab diener, a pathology assistant, who would know enough about anatomy to pick the right spots. And he’s had no formal medical training.”

  Maharos said, “While I’m thinking of it, so far no one knows about the signature wounds except for seven people: the four of us, my former partner, my chief, and Lieutenant Birtcher of Canton P.D. Homicide Division. I don’t have to tell you how important it is to protect that information. The press is already sniffing around. Just before I came down here I was dogged by a reporter who, I think, has an idea that we’re looking at serial murders. I’m not sure how long we’re going to be able to stonewall. Once it leaks, you can imagine how hard it’s going to be to work this case.”

  Vandergrift turned to McAllister. “What do you make of the fact that each of these victims was shot by a different gun?”

  “I don’t know. Seems odd that the killer would go to the trouble of changing guns and at the same time leave his signature by the way he shoots them. Hell, he or she wasn’t trying to hide the fact that the same person was killing all these people.”

  Vandergrift said, “Maybe the killer wants it known that one person is responsible.”

  “Either that or doesn’t care one way or another,” said Maharos.

  McAllister glanced at his watch. The meeting was over.

  Outside McAllister’s office, Maharos said, “Where’s a good place to eat? I think I’ll have dinner here before I head back.”

  “If you like seafood, there’s The Whaler. It’s only about three blocks from here,” said Vandergrift.

  “Sounds good to me. What about you. Want to join me, or do you have a family to feed? I’ll even spring for the meal.”

  Vandergrift grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. I’m my family. Sure I’ll join you, but we’ll go Dutch—and you’ll have to give me time to change out of this uniform.”

  “Okay, but I’ll buy the wine.”

  I’m my family, she had said. Maharos’ anticipation level was rising to the red zone.

  They had reached the parking lot. Vandergrift said, “Follow my car, it’s that dirty yellow Chevy. My place is only ten minutes away. I’m a quick change artist.”

  Maharos sat in an easy chair in the spotless living room of Karen Vandergrift’s two-bedroom, condominium while she went into the bedroom to change. He gazed around at the simple blonde furnishings and down at the beige shag carpeting, wondering how she kept everything so damned clean and neat while she worked at a full-time job. He got up to examine more closely a framed photograph on the mantle of the fireplace at one end of the living room. The woman could have been a smiling Karen in her mid-fifties. The husky, square-jawed man next to her looked about sixty. His gray hair was crew cut and he stood with a stiffly erect, military bearing, faint posed smile on his lips. Maharos looked around for evidence of a man in her life, found none.

  Vandergrift called from the bedroom, “Fix yourself a drink, if you’d like. The makings are in the wood cabinet in the living room. If you’re any kind of detective you’ll know where to find the ice.”

  The low cabinet held bottles of liquor, tonic and soda, and several cocktail glasses. “Can I get something for you?” he called.

  “Okay. Fix me a vodka and tonic, easy on the vodka.”

  He mixed two and carried her drink to the closed bedroom door. “Room service,” he called, and handed it to her when she stuck her bare arm through the slightly opened door.

  When she walked out into the living room twenty minutes later, she was wearing an emerald green dress, a thin, gold link chain at her throat, large pearl earrings and high-heeled black pumps.

  “Now, that’s how a deputy sheriff should dress,” he said.

  “Bet you can’t even tell where I carry my service revolver.”

  “Mind if I frisk you?”

  “Not until you read me my rights—and see that I’m fed.”

  He wasn’t sure if, with all the banter, she was saying, try again later. He let it pass.

  The Whaler was a franchised seafood restaurant outfitted with the obligatory fish net ceiling, starfish and mounted oars on the walls and tanks of tropical fish used as room partitions. Maharos’ mesquite-broiled trout was well filleted and tasty. Vandergrift had the Atlantic red snapper and pronounced it “delicious.” They finished the remains of the bottle of a California Chardonnay while they sat staring into the flickering oil lamp in the center of the table and each learned who the other was.

  Karen had been an army “brat.” Her father was a regular army master sergeant and during a thirty-year career, moved the family from Fort Ord, where Karen was born, through posts from the Philippines to Germany. She had a brother who was a West Point graduate and now served with NATO in Belgium. Karen had gone to Ohio State University while her father was stationed at Camp McKinley outside Dayton. In college she had taken pre-law courses, but after graduation decided against going on to law school. “I decided to become a housewife instead. Poor choice.”

  Maharos waited, saying nothing.

  “Tom was in law school at Ohio State when we met. After we were married, I took a job at Lazarus’s Department Store selling house wares, and hated every minute of it. I had taken some courses in criminal investigation while I was in college, was fascinated with the subject, and, when Tom graduated, I applied for admission to the Franklin County Sheriff’s Academy in Columbus.” She smiled peering over the lamplight. “Dr. Freud would probably say I was trying to emulate my father—you know, the uniform.

  “Well, to complete my long, boring story, Tom couldn’t take my long on-duty shifts, and found some company to while away his loneliness—one of the secretaries in his office. It really didn’t take very astute detective work on my part to find out about it. I just walked into the house, when I got off duty earlier than expected one day, and figured out that the dress, bra, slip and panties strewn from the living room to the bedroom were probably not my husband’s. I reasoned that any guy stupid enough to bring his toys home didn’t deserve me. Just like magic, my husband turned into an ex-.”

  Maharos said, “What brought you to Canton?”

  “Well, I had no ties to Columbus, so after my divorce I found that there was an opening here, applied and got the job. Hard to believe, it’s been six years already.”

  Maharos’ eyes scanned the fishnetted ceiling while he

  did some mental calculation. Vandergrift broke in. “Thirty-six.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “If you’re wondering, I’m thirty-six. I got a late start.”

  His eyebrows rose. “I would have guessed thirty, thirty-one at most.”

  “I like your numbers better. Want to try my weight?”

  His eyes scanned up and down. “You have no worries there.”

  “That’s ‘cause it’s covered.”

  “I’ve already removed your clothing—in my calculations.”

  She nodded slowly, a faint smile on her lips. “I think this conversation is getting a little out of hand. What about you?

  You haven’t said word-one about yourself.”

  “Want me to start with the Parthenon?”

  She glanced at her watch. “I think they close this place up at one a.m. Maybe you could start somewhere after Alexander the Great”

  He shook his head. “You mean skip over 100 years of Greek history?”

  “Well, maybe just take it from the battle at Syracuse.”

  His face showed his mild surprise. “I’m impressed. Actually, my father was born in the shadow of the Acropolis in Athens. My mother came from the island of Mykonos. They came to this country in 1939,
just ahead of the war in Europe.”

  “How did they get to Ohio?”

  “My father had a brother who had immigrated a few years earlier and lived in Youngstown. My folks ran a little grocery store in Youngstown until Pop died. I came along during World War II, went to Kent State and by the time I graduated, we were well along in the Vietnam War, so I joined the Navy. I was a communications officer on a destroyer for about two years.”

  “In Vietnam?”

  “Mostly just off-shore. It was pure Dullsville.”

  “My Dad was in Vietnam, but the Army show was anything but dull.”

  He smiled and tapped his forehead. “Why do you think I joined the Navy? It turned out I wasn’t so smart after all. We had a shipboard explosion that knocked me on my keester. The good part was, it got me back to the States and a medical survey out of the service.”

  “Were you badly hurt?”

  “Not so bad that I couldn’t pass the physical to get into the Youngstown Police Academy. Let’s see, that was 1967.”

  “I was fourteen.”

  “Don’t rub it in. Anyway, three years later I made detective third grade and married Marcie.”

  She leaned forward on her elbows. “Now we’re getting to the part I’ve been waiting for.”

  Maharos told her about Marcie and Annie and the rest of it. He glanced at his watch. “Well, that’s my arithmetic trick for the evening—putting forty-six years into twenty minutes.” He was a little disappointed that she didn’t seem surprised at the “forty-six years” part.

  Vandergrift pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’ve got a long shift tomorrow.”

  Maharos gave the waiter his credit card.

  Vandergrift said, “Hey, we were going Dutch, remember? And do you realize we haven’t spoken about our mutual homicides?”

  “Yeah. Well don’t tell the Youngstown City Auditor. I intend to put it on my expense account.”

  “Well, in that case thank the city of Youngstown for a delicious meal—and an enjoyable evening.”

  There was an awkward moment for Maharos as he escorted Vandergrift to the door of her condo. She solved his problem. Smiling, she held out her hand. “Well, you have a long ride back home so I won’t ask you in for a nightcap. Thanks again. See you soon.”