Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  On the drive home, Maharos breathed deeply. The scent of her perfume lingered in the car, and his thoughts of her face and body and their conversation stirred him in a way he hadn’t felt since he courted Marcie.

  SIXTEEN

  “The Loot wants to see you, Al.”

  That was Detective Jerry Weaver’s greeting as Maharos walked into the squad room.

  “Bragg?”

  “How many lieutenants we got?”

  Ed Bragg was in his usual posture, leaning over his desk on which was spread a paper sandwich wrapper. He was eating the BLT that had come wrapped in it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when Maharos came through the door, and tipped his head toward the chair while he swallowed the mouthful of food.

  He sucked some food from between his teeth, swallowed again and said, “You planning to draw your check from the Stark County Sheriff’s office?”

  Maharos wrinkled his forehead.

  Bragg went on. “I figure you’ve been in this office twenny minutes and in Canton the rest of the time over the past four days. Meantime, you’ve used up two of the three weeks I give you on the Horner thing. And also meantime, I got reporters crawling up my ass wanting to know what’s happening.”

  “Chief, we’re not sitting on our asses. We’ve already nailed down five homicides, including Horner, that fit the M.O. We’ve got a definite link between two of them, and it’s just a matter of time before we establish that all of them are connected. That’s the angle we’re working on now.”

  “Who’s this ‘we’?”

  “Deputy Sheriff Vandergrift and me.”

  “This Vandergrift know shit from shinola?”

  “Yeah. Vandergrift is bright and a good worker.”

  “Why doesn’t he come here instead of you going to Canton all the time?”

  Maharos was putting off any discussion of gender as long as he could, although he knew the truth about Vandergrift would eventually come out. “Because two of the cases are from Canton. The one we’re tracking now is a gay nurse. We’re trying to find out if any of the other victims were homosexual. Maybe that’s the thread that will lead us to a motive and to the killer.” He paused five seconds. In a low, almost inaudible voice, added, “Besides, it’s ‘she’ not ‘he’.”

  “You mean the nurse was a dyke?”

  “No, the sheriff is a ‘she’.”

  Bragg sat looking at his desktop. His bald head became pink, then red. When he raised his head he stared at Maharos. He seemed unsure how to proceed. Maharos sat with his hands in his lap, fingers intertwined tightly. He lay in a foxhole, seeing a grenade roll in, waiting for the explosion. When it came it wasn’t loud. A corner of Bragg’s mouth turned up. A smirk, not a smile. His voice was low. “You think you’re one smart-assed dick—and I don’t mean detective. Let me tell you something, Maharos. You’re still workin’ for me. I hear there’s any dickin’ around with this lady cop—sheriff, whatever the fuck she is, you’re on suspension. Got that? Now get the hell outta here.” He swept his arm in a broad wave.

  Maharos remained seated. Inside, he seethed with resentment. This bull seated on a throne he occupied only because of seniority, was acting like a prosecutor, judge and jury. Although he secretly wished Bragg’s insinuation were true, he couldn’t let it pass. “How long have you known me, Ed? Fifteen years? In that time have you ever seen or heard of me doing anything unprofessional? You know goddam well I’ve played by the book every minute of the time I’ve been on this police force. I’ve got a wall full of commendations to prove it. I didn’t ask for this ‘lady cop,’ but I’ll tell you this: she’s got more brains than a lot of guys I’ve worked with.” He waited a moment glaring at the lieutenant, then went on. “If you can’t trust me to handle this case, lady partner or no, I shouldn’t be working for you.”

  Bragg took a deep breath. He pushed himself off his chair and walked to the window, looking out at the cars streaming down the sunlit street on a perfect June day. He spoke to the window. “Al, I’ve got more respect for you than anyone in my division. I guess the pressure got to me. Like I told you, I’m hearing it from the chief, the D.A., the bar association, shit, you name it. Maybe I been around here too long. Forget what I said.” He turned, faced Maharos with a weak smile and extended his hand.

  Maharos shook his hand. “It’s forgotten. I don’t envy you your job, Ed.” He started for the door.

  Bragg said, “And Al, this lady sheriff, you wanna grab yourself a piece, be my guest.” He chuckled.

  * * *

  Vandergrift, in uniform, was driving the black and white patrol car with the large star decal on both sides, Maharos in the shotgun seat, when they pulled up in the parking lot of Friar’s Tavern on McKinley Avenue in Canton. Maharos had in his lap a brown manila envelope. Vandergrift said, “This is it.”

  Maharos said, “You mean Canton only has two gay-lesbian bars?”

  She shrugged. “I’m surprised there are enough customers for two places. Canton’s so straight you could roll a bowling ball down Tuscarawas Avenue from one end of town to the other and never touch a curb.”

  Maharos said, “I would have said the same thing about Youngstown until recently. Now the closet doors are opening a crack and you see married guys and women peeking out.”

  They walked to the front door under the swinging sign on which was painted a chubby, smiling man, top of his head shaved, wearing a brown monk’s habit. It took half a minute until their eyes adjusted to the darkness of the dimly lit room. The sweetly rancid smell of stale wine and liquor hung in the air. At two-thirty in the afternoon there were only two people in the place. The bartender was polishing glasses, and a young man with very blonde hair, wearing cut-off jeans was seated on a stool in front of the bar, a cocktail glass in his hand.

  Maharos followed Vandergrift to the far end of the bar and the bartender ambled over. He glanced at Vandergrift’s badge. “What can I do for you, officers?”

  Maharos took a dozen pictures out of the manila envelope and laid them on the counter. They included photos of Horner, Gibson, Graves, Hamberger and Burnstein. In addition, there were photos of several others, not connected with their investigation. “We’re trying to locate several people. Recognize anyone in these photos.”

  “You’re looking for gays, right?”

  “That’s who your clientele is, isn’t it?”

  He nodded scanning each of the pictures in turn. He hesitated when he came to Burnstein’s picture, glanced through the others and came back to Burnstein. “Isn’t this Flossie Burnstein?”

  “You know him?”

  “Knew him. Sure, he used to come in here with Lance Harwood

  before—.”

  “Recognize any of the others?”

  He shook his head while he squinted at the pictures once again. “Why the sudden interest in Burnstein’s case? I thought you had Harwood nailed to the wall.”

  Vandergrift said, “Just checking. Thanks.”

  Maharos put the photos back in the manila envelope and they walked out into the bright sunlight. They had already been to the Blue Heron, Canton’s other gay bar and had gotten the same response.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ask at that steam room,” said Maharos.

  Vandergrift drove north on McKinley to 2nd, then east to a street that consisted of residential buildings on one side, and a row of five stores on the other.

  She stopped in front of the store with a sign that read “Interiors By Harold.” In the showcase were two shiny black, plastic chairs that appeared suitable only for someone who was sway-backed, and a low Lucite table over which was draped a length of cloth, black with broad, diagonal white stripes. On the back wall were hung two abstract paintings that carried out the black and white theme.

  The store next to it bore no identifying sign. Its showcase contained only a pleated beige curtain hung on a brass rod extending the width of the window. Behind it, barely visible over the top of the curtain, a wall, painted white, shie
lded the interior of the store from the street. In a lower corner of the store window, a cardboard sign read, “Parking In Rear.” The glass door of the shop was covered by the same beige material as the curtain in the showcase, so the interior was obscured.

  Maharos said, “This is the steam room?”

  “Uh-huh. Harold, the guy that owns the decorating shop next door, runs it. I’ll wait out here in the car.”

  Maharos got out and walked to the front door. The door was locked. He pushed the doorbell on the doorframe. There was no response from inside the store, so he rapped on the glass of the front door. A half-minute later, the door of the decorator shop next door opened and a man’s head poked out. “Can I help you?”

  He was in his mid-thirties, six-feet tall, and weighed no more than 135 pounds. His face was as thin and gaunt as the rest of his body. His brown hair, drawn back from his face, was fastened by a rubber band in a short ponytail. A small gold ring dangled from his left earlobe. His white shirt was open at the neck exposing a gold chain. The shirtsleeves were rolled up to his mid forearms.

  Maharos held his gold shield up for the man to see. “Detective Maharos. Do you run this steam room?”

  “The steam room doesn’t open until after six.”

  “Are you connected with its operation?”

  The thin man hesitated. “Well, in a way.”

  “Are you Harold?”

  “No, I’m Troy Woodridge, Harold’s partner.”

  “I’d like some information. Can you help me?”

  “I’ll try. What is it?”

  “Can I come in and discuss it?”

  Woodridge glanced to the street where Vandergrift sat in the Sheriff Department patrol car. “Did you say you were a detective?”

  “Yes.

  He held the door open and followed Maharos into the decorator shop. The shop was much more spacious than appeared from the outside and was crammed with furniture, mostly ultra modern living room sets, and lamps. Maharos sat on a white leather couch, took the photos out of his envelope and spread them on a low coffee table. He asked Woodridge if he recognized anyone in the pictures.

  Maharos watched his face as he went through the stack. He thought Woodridge hesitated when he came to Horner’s picture. When he had examined them all, he pointed to Burnstein’s picture.

  “Sure, I knew Burnstein. Poor guy.”

  “Did he ever come into your steam room?”

  “No. I met him through his friend, Harwood. Lance is a decorator too. One of our competitors, you might say. I guess you people took him out of competition.” He laughed, then suddenly grew serious. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of it. It’s hard for me to believe that Lance would kill Frank. They were so happy together—most of the time.”

  Maharos got up as though to leave. Suddenly he turned to face Woodridge. “What do you know about the times when they weren’t so happy together?”

  Woodridge tugged at his earring. “Well, they—I guess you know they had a few spats. Who doesn’t?”

  Through Maharos’ mind ran the question: Was there someone jealous of the relationship of the two—jealous enough to murder Burnstein?

  “Did Frank or Lance have anyone else on the side?”

  The young man shifted his gaze from Maharos. He said nothing for a few moments. Finally, “You’ve got to understand, Lance was a very intense person. Frank was an easygoing guy. Everyone was his friend. Whether or not either one had affairs with anyone else, I honestly don’t know.”

  Maharos extended his hand. “Well, thanks for your help.”

  “Not at all. By the way, I’m curious. Who were those other people whose pictures you showed me?”

  “Oh, just some people we’re trying to get information about.”

  “Are they gay?”

  “Why, do you know most of the gays around here?”

  The thin man shrugged. “I’m quite active in the Gay Rights Movement of Northeastern Ohio. I know a number of men and women in that movement.”

  “How about Youngstown and Akron?”

  “Yes, they’re in our chapter.”

  “What if the people in these photos were not open about their homosexuality? Would you be likely to have any contact with them?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve been to parties where there are, what you people like to call, ‘closet gays’; doctors and lawyers, for example, who feel it would damage their image to be known as homosexual.”

  “Without asking you to identify which ones you mean, are any of the people in the pictures I showed you closet gays?”

  There was no hesitation in his answer. “No.”

  Maharos sank back in the car seat. “Well, so much for the “gay connection” theory.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s call it a day. I’ll head on home, fix myself a TV dinner and see if I can get any bright ideas watching re-runs of ‘Hill Street Blues’.”

  Vandergrift looked straight ahead as she drove. “I was wondering, if you don’t have plans for dinner, how would you like to come over to my place? I’ll fix us a couple of steaks I’ve got in the freezer. I’m not a great cook but you won’t starve.”

  Maharos’ weariness suddenly left him and he breathed a little faster. “Sounds good to me. I’m sure I can get brighter ideas watching you than from watching Frank Furillo.”

  She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes and a smile tugged at her mouth.

  SEVENTEEN

  Rankins stepped back, cocked his head first to one side then to the other then moved forward and brushed back a wisp of hair from the face of the corpse. Needs more coloring. He touched the bristles of a small camel’s hair paintbrush to the surface of a jar of pink rouge and lightly stroked it on to the cheeks of the dead woman. With the tip of his little finger, he spread the rouge so the edges faded into the pallor of her facial skin.

  “Good job, Jackson.”

  He hadn’t heard Peterson come in, but nodded without looking up. Although it was three years since he had begun working for him, Ephraim Rankins still had to think for a moment when he was called “Jackson.” Jackson Wiliams. One “L” in Wiliams. Seven letters in each name. He picked the name because it sounded like “William Jackson”, his old asshole buddy in Lima State. It was the name he gave Peterson when he was hired. Didn’t want anyone to be looking up his past record. Even got a new social security number to go with the name. Duane Jackson in Pittsburgh got that for him.

  Jason Peterson placed his hand on Rankins’ shoulder, patted it gently. “Let’s take her in to the chapel. The family will be here any minute.”

  They wheeled the gleaming steel gurney on which the casket rested, through the door of the embalming room, down a corridor and through the double doors of a dimly lit chapel. A dozen rows of seats flanked the maroon-carpeted center aisle. Two large baskets of gladiolas were already in place at the front of the chapel; their sweet scent permeated the air. They positioned the casket between the flower baskets.

  Peterson glanced at his watch. “It’s quarter past six. Why don’t you get your dinner, Jackson, then come back and relieve me before you take off for the rest of the evening.”

  Rankins left the mortuary and walked down Wales Road. Three blocks east, he turned into Fern. Half a block from the building where he had rented his apartment, he turned into a narrow alley. A row of detached wooden garages faced the alley. He stopped in front of a garage that bore a tarnished number 8, unlocked the door and pushed it up. A moment later, he backed out his green van.

  It was early evening on a mild day in late June and there was little traffic on Massillon’s streets. He drove to the take-out window of a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant on Lincoln Way and waited while his order was processed. When the smiling young woman passed the sack through the window, he placed it on the seat alongside him and drove along State Route 21 until he reached Massillon’s outskirts. A dirt road led to a wooded area where he parked and ate while seated in the van. He followed his routine: a bite, seven chews
, swallow. Never varied.

  You are still one short of your quota.

  He half turned toward to the back of the van and nodded. “I know,” he said.

  The other tribal leaders have presented their gifts. You are the only one—

  “Look, I know. It has to follow the schedule, right?”

  Just so you remember. You know the consequences—and the reward. Don’t forget the reward. The voice taunted him.

  “Yeah, yeah. Damned right, I haven’t forgotten. Just so you don’t forget. You promised.”

  There was no response and he turned to peer into the back of the van, feeling the sharp pain in his back as he twisted. He rubbed the part of his back, where the scar was, and relieved the spasm. He had thought there would be no more pain after the operation, what was it—three, four years now. Dr. Marino had said that removing the disk would take care of the problem. Well, at least the leg pain was gone. But whenever he twisted a certain way he still had sharp pain in the lower back. That would last forever, he guessed.

  It all started when he lifted that bag of feed. The fat son of a bitch, Hamberger, didn’t care how hard he worked him. The bag was supposed to weigh one hundred pounds. Shit, it probably was half again that heavy. When he had tried to throw the bag into the back of the pickup, he felt a searing pain in his lower back and down his left leg. He fell to the ground writhing while Hamberger stood over him, prodding him with a foot, telling him to stop faking and get back to work. Somehow he managed to finish out the day, but when he tried to get out of bed the next morning, he couldn’t move. Finally, he crawled out of bed and crept on hands and knees along the floor to the phone. He called Hamberger to tell him he couldn’t come in to work but would try to make it the next day.

  “Don’t bother. You’re through. You can pick up your check.” Hamberger had slammed the phone down so hard, Rankins’ ear rang.

  Dr. Theodore Long at the Jefferson Medical Group clinic gave him some codeine but it only helped for a short time. Two weeks later he was no better. His left leg became so weak it would collapse under him. Several times he almost fell while walking. Just as bad, was the pins and needles sensation in the sole of his left foot every time he put it on the ground.