Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  “We won’t know until we find him and question him.”

  Mother Agatha adjusted her glasses. “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place.” She was getting to play detective and looked as though she was going to enjoy it.

  Mother Agatha took off her glasses and polished them with a tissue. “Let me see. Mary, what would be the best way of finding out who occupied 320-West during the dates we’re interested in? You don’t keep any such record, do you?”

  “No, Mother. I do have a list of all the admissions and discharges. The list shows what room they occupied at the time they were discharged from the hospital.”

  “All right. Let’s start with the admission and discharge dates of the three patients who we know occupied that room. Let’s see, that was Gibson, Abelson and Graves? You have that on the microfiche of each of these patients, right?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “Now, start with the date the first of these patients was admitted and go through the list of discharges from that date on…” She spent five minutes giving Mary O’Brien detailed instructions on the data to be retrieved.

  When she was finished, she turned to Maharos. The look on her thin face said: Am I an investigator, or what.

  Maharos gave her his most admiring look. It said: Anytime you’re ready to leave the cloth behind, we’re ready to pin a shield on you.

  Vandergrift glanced sidelong at Maharos and hiked up her slacks. With all that bullshit floating around…

  TWENTY-TWO

  Five-thirty. Maharos and Vandergrift left the hospital to grab a quick supper before they went to Vandergrift’s office. Mary O’Brien’s search would take an hour, perhaps two. Although it was well past her normal quitting time, she agreed to stay on and get the information for them. She told them she would call Vandergrift at Sheriff’s Headquarters to report her findings.

  Five minutes after they reached the Sheriff’s Office, they received O’Brien’s call. “I’ve got three names for you. Each of them was in 320-West during part of the time that Gibson, Abelson and Graves were hospitalized.”

  The names she gave them were: Cornelius M. Jarnow, Daniel X. Maloney and Robert T. Banks.

  Vandergrift had taken the call. She said, “Then the fourth bed in that room would have been occupied by one of those three?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You see, my records show the room these patients occupied at the time they were discharged. If someone was admitted to 320-West, but had his room changed while he was in the hospital, his name wouldn’t show up on my list.”

  “Because he would have been discharged from a different room?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Does that happen very often?”

  “Not really. Most patients stay in the same room throughout their stay.”

  Vandergrift said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to play the odds on this one. Do you have the addresses of the three names you gave me?”

  “Yes. Now, remember, the addresses are almost four years old, so I don’t know where these people are now.”

  Jarnow and Banks had Canton addresses, Maloney had been living in North Canton.

  The phone book listed Banks at the same address he had almost four years before. Maloney was not listed in the North Canton phone book and Jarnow was not in either the Canton phone book or City Directory.

  Although it was now eight o’clock, Maharos felt they should visit Banks at his home. Early the following day they would try to track down the other two through the Ohio Department of Motor Vehicles license registrations.

  Vandergrift changed out of her uniform in the locker room while Maharos waited in the lounge. She came out wearing a brightly patterned summer dress and carried a large beige handbag that obviously held her .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver. The purse had no clasp; its Velcro fastener could be opened as fast as Maharos could reach his shoulder holster. They took Maharos’ unmarked car.

  Banks’ listed address was a one-floor bungalow in a street of tract homes. Except for differences in exterior paint color and window covering, one house looked the same as the others on the street.

  At close to nine o’clock on one of the first days of July, it was still light enough for two teen-aged boys next door to be playing one-on-one at a basketball hoop suspended over a garage door. They were good. They were black. They stopped playing to stare at the two white officers when they started up the walk, then they resumed play.

  Maharos pressed the doorbell and a woman’s voice from inside shouted, “Who is it?”

  “Police officers.”

  From inside the house a blaring TV was tuned to a baseball game. The door cracked open, held by a chain. A woman’s face peered out. Her eyes, white against her dark skin, were open wide. “Who did you say?”

  Maharos showed her his gold shield. “I’m Detective Maharos. This is Deputy Sheriff Vandergrift. Is this Robert Banks’ residence?”

  The door remained open only as far as the chain would allow. “What you want? Robert ain’t done nothin’ bad.”

  “Is he there? We’d like to talk to him.”

  Vandergrift had her hand inside the handbag, on the butt of the revolver.

  “Wait a minute.” She shouted toward a room in the back of the house. “”Robert, it’s the po-lice. They want to talk to you.”

  She left the door open a crack and disappeared inside the house. A moment later, a lean, six-foot man appeared in the opening in the doorway. He wore a T-shirt and basketball shorts. He had a small mustache, and a few hairs hung from his chin as a scraggly beard. He could have been any age from thirty to forty. “Who you lookin’ for?”

  “Mr. Banks?”

  “You sure you got the right Banks?”

  “Robert T. Banks?”

  “Yeah, I’m Robert Thomas Banks. What you want to see me ‘bout?”

  “Mr. Banks, were you a patient in St. Agnes Hospital about four years ago?”

  Hesitation. “What about it. Workman’s Comp’sation paid my bill.”

  “Mr. Banks, would you mind if we came in and discussed why we’re here? It’s not about your bill.”

  He did not answer, but the door closed, the chain was removed and the door re-opened. He gestured them inside.

  The front door opened directly into a small living room. It was darkened except for the blue light reflected from a TV screen on the faces of two small boys who sat on the floor in front of the set.

  Banks led Maharos and Vandergrift through a door from the living room to the kitchen. They sat, the two officers on one side of the kitchen table, Banks opposite them, a half-scowl on his face. The woman who had answered the door stood alongside him. Her hand rested on his shoulder.

  Vandergrift smiled at her. “Are you Mrs. Banks?”

  She nodded without speaking, did not smile back.

  Maharos said, “Mr. Banks, when you were a patient at St. Agnes, do you remember the other men who were in the room with you?

  He cocked his head. “Man, you know how long ago that was? That was ‘bout four years ago. You ‘spec’ me remember who was in the room with me?”

  Maharos said, “Let me give you some names. See if they are familiar. Marlon Graves?”

  Banks shook his head,

  “George Gibson?”

  “Nope.”

  “Ted Abelson?”

  “Lemme hear that one again.”

  “Abelson, Ted or Theodore Abelson.”

  “Maybe that one sound familiar. I’m not sure. What you want to know for?”

  “We’re investigating some—cases. They involve these men.”

  Banks looked more at ease now. Maharos, watching the man carefully, saw his wariness dissipate. A black man faced by two white police officers, at first not sure what crime they suspected him of carrying out. Knowing he had done nothing wrong, he wasn’t a suspect. “Wha’d they do. Park in a loadin’ zone?”

  Mrs. Banks laughed, she also felt the tens
ion ease.

  “This is a homicide investigation.”

  Banks’ eyes rolled up. “Uh-oh. One of these guys off someone?”

  Maharos ignored the question. He wasn’t going to tip his hand yet; although he was already sure Banks was not the fourth man they were looking for. “Do you remember how many men were in the room with you?”

  Banks pursed his lips in deep thought for a few seconds. “Three or four. No, three. Yeah, three and me.”

  “Do you remember their names?”

  “Uh-uh. Only the one you said. Abel-somethin’. Wait a minute. There was one guy had an Irish name.”

  “Maloney?”

  “That’s it.”

  “How about the fourth?”

  “Don’t remember who it was.”

  “Does the name Jarnow ring a bell?”

  He shook his head.

  Mrs. Banks had been standing silently, her arm around Banks’ shoulder. She said, “Robert, who was that foreign man was in the room with you?”

  Banks looked up. “Oh yeah. Don’t remember his name though.”

  Maharos said, “Cornelius?”

  Banks shrugged. “Might be.”

  Vandergrift said, “Incidentally, Mr. Banks, why were you in the hospital?”

  “I had a operation. I was ruptured. From lifting. At Timkin.”

  “How long were you there?”

  He looked up at his wife. “You ‘member, Sarah?”

  “ ‘Bout four, five days, maybe a week.”

  Vandergrift said, “Do you remember a male nurse named Frank Burnstein.”

  A wide smile lit up his face. “Swishy guy? Yeah, I remember him. He was goo-o-o-d. You call for a bedpan, he came right away. Better than a lot of the lady nurses. Know what I mean?” He suddenly became serious. “Hey, he didn’t kill nobody, did he?”

  Maharos said, “No. As a matter of fact he was killed. That’s why we’re carrying out this investigation—one of the reasons.”

  “He was killed?” Banks appeared shocked. He glanced up at his wife. “Hear that, Sarah. That nice little faggy nurse was killed.”

  Maharos said, “What do you remember about Maloney?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Well, was he young, old? Anything peculiar about him? How did you get along with him?”

  Banks thought for a moment. “’Bout my age, close to forty. Talked a lot. Yeah, joked around with the nurses—lady nurses. Wasn’t very sick. Don’t know why he was in the hospital. Maybe like me, you know, ruptured.”

  “Do you remember if he had a wife? Anybody that might have come to visit him?”

  He laughed. “Man, how you spec’ me to remember all those things?”

  “What about Cornelius Jarnow? What was he like?”

  “You mean the foreign guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was a old man—maybe fifty. White-haired. Spoke funny. He had a wife used to be with him most of the time. He real sick. Kinda green, know what I mean. He and me didn’t talk much. He didn’t talk to nobody—even his wife.”

  Vandergrift said, “Did you leave the hospital before any of the others?”

  “Lemme see. That Abel guy, he left a day or two after I got there. I don’t remember about Maloney. The other guy was there when I got there and he was there when I went home.”

  “Do you remember who took the bed Abelson was in after he left?”

  “Nope. I don’t even remember if anyone took his bed. Seem to me, for a day, maybe two, there was only three of us after Abels went home.”

  “You, Maloney and Cornelius?”

  “Right.”

  Maharos said, “Well, you’ve been a help. I’m sorry we came barging in on you like we did, but we’re trying to move along as fast as we can.”

  Banks walked them to the door. “I sure hope you find who killed that fag nurse. He he’ped me. He he’ped me a lot.”

  Back in the car, Maharos said, “What do you think?”

  “Well, I’m sure Banks is not the one we’re looking for. It’s either Maloney or Jarnow.”

  “Or neither.”

  She said, “Or someone else we don’t even know about.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Shortly after midnight, Maharos walked into his apartment. He had dropped Karen Vandergrift off at her condo a little more than an hour ago. At the door they embraced in what could have been prelude to much more. Vandergrift was first to make the break. “Get out of here, Maharos, before I change my mind. We’ve got a big day ahead and I have to report at six-thirty for muster.” She felt Maharos’ hardness against her thigh. She pushed him away. “Take your friend home. See you tomorrow.”

  Reluctantly, Maharos got back in the car. He knew it was more than sexual attraction with Karen. It certainly was that. But it was also the desire to have her near him all the time. To tell her his thoughts, to listen to hers. He could almost forget that his partner was a woman. Almost. But the camaraderie that he had with some of his male partners was also there with her. He had confidence in her ability to think, to act, and if necessary, to protect him, such as he had with only a few of the men with whom he worked.

  He had to report to headquarters in the morning for a briefing with Bragg. Tomorrow (it was almost that now) was July 3rd. Only four days left before the seventh. Would it be like that other seventh, “a date…of infamy”?

  * * *

  He awakened to the sound of shots, sat up quickly, then realized it was only some kids getting an early start on Fourth of July firecrackers someone had smuggled across from Canada.

  The face that looked back at him in the mirror while he shaved, was more haggard than usual this morning. He was getting too old for late dates, he told himself. The thought of settling down with someone was more appealing than ever.

  At headquarters Ed Bragg was his audience of one as he reviewed the latest developments in the Horner investigation. It now involved so many other people, victims as well as suspects, that he had almost forgotten it had started, for him, with the investigation of George Horner’s murder.

  In Bragg’s office he had set up an easel on which he placed a large pad of paper. With a Magic Marker pen, he listed the names of the victims and the dates of their deaths.

  Alongside each of the names he listed the suspects, matching them with the victims:

  1/7 Burnstein—?Harwood

  2/7 Abelson/Salter—?Chas. Salter

  3/7 Graves— ?

  4/7 Gibson— ?

  5/7 Horner— ?Nancy Taylor, Sally Horner

  6/7 Hamberger—?Young

  7/7 ? ? ? — ?

  Those who were linked to St. Agnes Hospital in Canton formed a second list:

  Burnstein

  Graves

  Gibson

  Horner

  Finally, he listed separately, the other three men known to have occupied Room 320-West at the hospital

  Robert Banks

  Daniel Maloney

  Cornelius Jarnow

  He put a line through Banks’ name, explained to Bragg that he did not consider him a viable suspect. From the description Banks had given him of the other two, he did believe either of them was the killer he was looking for.

  The lieutenant rocked back and forth in his chair. “Where do you go from here?”

  “St. Agnes seems to be the focal point right now. First, I’ve got to talk to the widows of Gibson and Graves. See if they remember who else was in the room with those two men. The next thing is to locate Maloney and Jarnow. See what they know. Maybe one of them is the person we’re looking for. Where Hamberger and Horner fit into the picture, I don’t know.”

  “You only got a few more days. I suppose you could use some help, but right now I don’t have a warm body to give you. Speakin’ of warm bodies, how you makin’ out with the lady sheriff?”

  Maharos ignored the comment. “She’s smart and a hard worker.”

  “Could you get some extra hands from her end?”

  Vandergrift had
already asked Sheriff McAllister for some assistance and had been turned down. Bluntly, he told her that two people were enough for an investigation. Maharos simply told Bragg that her office could not provide more help.

  His first stop, after leaving Bragg was the Records Office. He gave Karen Hennessy the names of Jarnow and Maloney and their last known addresses.

  “I’d like you to run a check of these through LEADS.” The Law Enforcement Automated Data Systems connected the police department with the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.

  Hennessy held up the sheet of paper Maharos had handed her. “You want a driver’s license check or a vehicle license check?”

  “Both.”

  “Both?”

  “And I also want you to run the names through your Mentioned File.” He was referring to a computerized file that contained the names, aliases, addresses of anyone mentioned in any case investigation or filed interview.

  Hennessy said, “You want all that?”

  “Still asking questions?”

  She glared at him for a moment before she viciously attacked her computer keyboard.

  He said, “I’ll phone in for the report in about an hour.”

  When Maharos phoned Bonnie Graves, she answered the phone with a husky voice that had not fully awakened. It took her a moment to remember him. “Oh, sure. That cute detective. Boy, you get up early.” It was eight-thirty.

  Maharos said, “Bonnie, your husband was a patient at St. Agnes Hospital in Canton, wasn’t he?”

  There was silence for ten seconds. “St. Agnes in Canton? Oh yeah. Must have been about five years ago. He had a hemorrhoid operation. What makes you bring that up?”

  “Remember, I had asked you where he might have met Henry Gibson, the man that wrote you the condolence note? Well, in checking, we found that they had been in the same room in St. Agnes Hospital. It was about three and one-half years ago.”

  “Gee! How’d you find out about that?”

  “Plodding, dull leg work, that’s how.”

  “Huh?”

  “The reason I’m calling you is to see if you recall the other patients who were in the room with him.”

  There was silence at her end.

  “Hello. Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m thinking. Gee, my head’s a blank right now. Maybe after I’ve had a cup of coffee I can remember something.”