Barry Friedman - Dead End

by Barry Friedman

  Kinkaid glanced up and down the driveway. Victor was not in sight. He ran to the front of the house. The boy was not there. He ran around to the back. The backyard was separated from the house behind it, one that faced the next street, by a picket fence. Low boxwood hedges enclosed the sides of the backyard. He ran to both sides and looked into the yards of the adjacent houses but did not spot the boy. As he passed by the log cabin playhouse, he looked through one of the small windows. Seated on the floor, reading a comic book, was Victor.

  The boy looked up and smiled. “Hi Detective. Did you come out to play with me?”

  Kinkaid blew out a deep breath. “Not right now kid. Come on back in the house.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Ephraim Rankins thought he had gone blind. Around him was blackness. It took him a moment to remember that he had been asleep on the floor in the back of the van. He was parked in woods on what was little more than a dirt path off Richville Road, five miles south of Massillon. He had driven there last night, cautious about returning to his own apartment after he had seen a patrol car in front. The police car was gone when he drove by again, but instinct told him to be wary now that he was so close to his goal.

  His supper was a tasteless fried fish sandwich he had bought at the drive-in window of a fast food joint. Excited in anticipation of what he had to do the next day, he had eaten only half of that. Now he was hungry and thirsty.

  A rooster’s crow from a farm about half a mile away told him that dawn was about to break. He got up, stretched and relieved himself outside the van.

  He knew he would have to get on the move soon. Even though he was in remote rural woods, he wasn’t sure who might come by when dawn broke. After the sun crept over the horizon, he drove toward a country general store he had passed on the road near Navarre, three miles back. He waited twenty minutes until the storekeeper, a wizened sixty-year-old man unlocked the door and grunted a good morning at him. The old man looked quizzically over the wire-rimmed glasses that hung low on his nose. “You ain’t from around here, are you, sonny?”

  “No.”

  “Thought so when I seen your Pennsylvania plates. Where you from?”

  “Pittsburgh.”

  Rankins helped himself to a quart of milk and a package of sliced ham from the refrigerator case and brought it to the counter along with a loaf of bread. After he had paid for it, the storekeeper waved him off. “Drive careful.”

  Four miles ahead, he entered the northbound ramp to I 77. He drove to a highway rest area and parked between a motor home and a truck. His breakfast consisted of a ham sandwich washed down with the milk. He remained parked in the rest area throughout the morning and early afternoon. Periodically, he got out of the van and strolled through the fields and woods that surrounded the rest area. Every hour or so a State Highway Patrol car pulled in and parked for a few minutes. He watched through the back window of the van as the officer in each of the cars would get out and stretch or go to the men’s room. The green van with the Pennsylvania plates caused the highway patrolmen no more concern than any of the other summer tourists passing along I 77.

  Remember your mission. Today’s The Day.

  He was seated in the driver’s seat now, and waved an impatient hand toward the back of the van. “I know, I know.”

  Do you have everything you’ll need?

  “Not everything.”

  The sacrificial instrument?

  “The gun?”

  The gun. It’s back in the apartment, isn’t it?

  “Yeah.”

  You’ll have to go back there and get it, wont you?

  “Uh-huh.”

  Well, do it. And be careful. They’re watching.

  He nodded.

  They’re watching. They’re watching…

  He backed the van out of the space he had occupied for more than eight hours and drove toward Massillon.

  At ten minutes to six, Dr. Marino followed his last patient out of an examining room. He stopped by at the staff lounge where Maharos and Vandergrift sat. He said, “I’ll finish some dictation and be ready to leave in fifteen minutes.”

  During the day, Maharos and Vandergrift had taken turns walking out of the office and casually surveying the surrounding area. The building occupied by Marino and his partner, Dr. Ed Lathrop, was one of several small professional buildings of similar size and design on the street. On their walks, neither Maharos nor Vandergrift had seen anyone or anything unusual. Yet, Vandergrift told Maharos she had the feeling that they were being watched. He shrugged. “I never discount a woman’s intuition, but my signals tell me we’re striking out.”

  “You don’t think he’ll make a move?”

  “I don’t know what to think at this point. We’ve still got a long way to go to get through the day.”

  He reflected that all the previous murders had occurred after dark. In early July, that would be past nine o’clock.

  At six-fifteen, they walked to their cars in the parking lot. Vandergrift rode in the BMW with Marino. Maharos followed them to Marino’s home.

  Kim Marino passed the platter to Maharos. “Finish the rest of this. Chicken cacciatore is no good left over.”

  He held up a palm. “Thanks. It’s delicious. But I can’t eat another mouthful. I’ve already had three helpings.”

  Marino said, “Where’d your partner disappear to?”

  “She’s checking the house again.”

  “Again?”

  “That’s why we’re here.”

  Vandergrift came back into the dining room and sat down. For the third time that evening she had checked the doors and windows from basement to attic to make sure they were securely locked. She was still in the same slacks and blouse she had worn since morning. Now, her blouse was not tucked into her slacks at the belt. Under it, her service automatic in a narrow belt holster, was discreetly hidden.

  Maharos had never seen her so nervous. “Everything locked up?”

  “Tighter than Fort Knox.”

  They were drinking coffee when Dr. Marino said, “I brought home some work. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go up in my study and dictate some reports.”

  Vandergrift said. “Would it disturb you if I go with you? I promise I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Come on along.”

  Maharos said, “I’ll wander around the house.” He spoke softly into the walkie-talkie he carried. “All secure inside. How about you.”

  The voice from the surveillance van came over the speaker, “All quiet.”

  Maharos carefully examined every door and window. Houdini would not have been able to pierce the defense they had set up. But Maharos was worried.

  * * *

  Ike Show sat in the kitchen of Rankins’ apartment facing the window that looked out to the back of the building. The apartment, on the second floor, was higher than the houses behind it giving him a clear view of the alley behind the building. Directly below him was a back door to the building. Clemens had told him he had checked and found it was locked. Anyone who entered by the back door would have to do so from the alley. From his perch at the window he could see anyone who approached the door. There was even a spotlight mounted over it that would be turned on after dark. In plain view, was the row of ten garages that faced the alley. He could also see a half block down Fern, the street that ran along the north side of the building.

  It was only five-thirty. There was still a lot of daylight left.

  He sat with the chair tilted, balanced on its two back legs. His feet were propped on the windowsill. In one hand he held the walkie-talkie, in the other, a paperback book.

  The scratchy sound of the two-way radio speaker interrupted his reading. “Unit One. Suspicious person approaching your building.”

  “Ten-four.”

  For the fifth time since he had been in the apartment, the surveillance team had called in a “suspicious person” sighting.

  A few moments later, “All clear.” Again.

  These dumb shith
eads were nervous as fifteen year-old-kids in a whorehouse. “Come on, you guys. Knock it off.”

  Downstairs in Warner’s apartment, Clemens said to his partner, “That prick is getting on my nerves.”

  Conrad said, “Fuck him. I’m gonna call what I see.”

  Show had insisted that only one person, himself, was needed in Rankins’ apartment. He had sent Clemens downstairs. Told him if two people were needed anywhere, it should be in Warner’s apartment. When Clemens objected Show said, “You ever been staked-out?”

  “This is my second.”

  “Look, I been on so fuckin’ many ‘a these things I got one eye shaped like a keyhole. If this guy shows, which I doubt, the only way he’s gonna get upstairs is from downstairs. Don’t it make sense to have you two guys downstairs where you can innercept?”

  Clemens wasn’t entirely convinced but he wasn’t secure enough to question the more experienced man’s judgment.

  Show called on his walkie-talkie. “Hey. I’m getting hungry. How about picking up a hamburger and a Coke for me.”

  Clemens said, “Want relief?”

  “Nah. I’ll stay here. Bring it up.”

  Clemens clicked off. “Bastard treats us like flunkies, ‘Bring it up.’ I oughta tell him to blow it up his ass.”

  Conrad said, “I’ll go. I’m getting hungry myself. Want something?”

  Clemens shook his head. “I’ll wait till you get back. I’ll take relief then.”

  * * *

  Carrying a paper sack with Show’s hamburger and coke, Joe Conrad walked into the apartment house vestibule. He unlocked the inner door with a key that Warner had given him, and walked up the flight of stairs. At the door to Rankins’ apartment, he pressed the doorbell. He heard the deadbolt slide and Show opened the door. The detective took the sack and peered into it. He nodded. Conrad noticed that he didn’t offer a word of thanks. “Did I get it right?”

  Show recognized the sarcastic tone. He looked into Conrad’s face. “Somethin’ crawl up your ass?”

  “Fuck you, Show.” He turned and slammed the door as he left. He stopped for a moment at the head of the stairs, listening for the deadbolt to click into place, heard nothing, shrugged and continued downstairs.

  * * *

  Rankins parked the van on Fern Street, half a block from his apartment building. By walking close to the houses that faced Fern, he could not see the window of his kitchen, nor could he be seen from there—until he reached the alley that ran behind his building. When he crossed the alley, a distance of twenty feet, he would be in full view of his kitchen window.

  As he approached the alley, his kitchen window came into view. His heart pounded. Someone was seated inside the apartment at the window. As he watched, he saw the person stand up, peer out the window in his direction and disappear from view. Had he been spotted? Rankins stood still, his sweaty hands balled into fists. Like a cornered animal, his sense told him he would be less conspicuous motionless. He heard the front vestibule door slam and a moment later, a man wearing a sport shirt appeared at the corner of the apartment building. Rankins tensed, ready to run back to the van. He watched, not moving, not blinking, not breathing, as the man in the sport shirt kept walking along Bridges, away from where he stood. Upstairs, the figure again appeared at the window, his back turned.

  Rankins took a deep breath and sprinted across the alley.

  Upstairs in the apartment, Show was taking his sandwich and Coke container out of the paper sack, placing them on the kitchen table. Another boring, fucking stakeout that would end up a big zero. At least he wasn’t going to be hungry.

  Rankins was at the back door. The key was already in his hand. The same key that opened the inner vestibule at the front door, also unlocked the back door. In seconds, he had it open and entered.

  He stood for a moment on a small stairway landing just inside the back door, then crept silently down the stairs to the basement of the building. In the dark he felt his way, along a row of storage lockers. He had been in the basement enough times to know that there was a second stairway. One that ascended to a door leading to the inner lobby. His hands touched a railing and he knew he had found it. The door at the top of the staircase unlocked with the same key he had used to open the back door. From the inner lobby, he passed the door to Warner’s apartment, quietly went up the carpeted staircase to the second floor.

  Rankins stood outside his apartment and put his ear to the door. He heard no sound from inside.

  He carefully put his key in the upper keyhole to unlock the deadbolt. By turning it slowly, he hoped the noise of the sliding deadbolt would be minimized. But the key would not turn. The deadbolt was already open! The second latch, a simple spring lock above the doorknob opened noiselessly to his key. He turned the knob and slowly cracked open the door. Peering inside, he could make out the back of the man seated in the kitchen facing the window. In one hand he held a sandwich, the other held a large soft drink container, a straw stuck out of the top.

  Rankins bent low and moved into the living room. His rubber-soled shoes made a slight squeaking sound on the uncarpeted hardwood floor, but the noise was obscured by the slurp of the soft drink passing through the straw in the man’s mouth.

  Slowly, Rankins crept toward the kitchen. Now he was at the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. His body still in the living room, Rankins reached around the doorframe, his fingers groping until they found a rack of knives mounted on a magnetic plate. Noiselessly, he removed the largest knife, an eight-inch blade. He gripped the handle until his knuckles were white. The man in the chair chewed noisily. Slowly, now, Rankins told himself. He started moving into the kitchen. He felt as though the tension inside him would burst out. He moved a millimeter at a time. Now he was three feet behind his prey. Now two feet.

  “UNIT ONE. SUSPICIOUS PERSON APPROACHING.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  The sudden blare of the speaker startled him. Rankins jumped back into the living room, behind the doorframe.

  He watched, every muscle taut, as the man picked up the walkie-talkie from the table alongside him. “What is it now, some kid on a bicycle?”

  “Show, it’s a man getting out of a blue Honda in front of your building.”

  The man put down the walkie-talkie, went back to chewing on his sandwich. A few moments later, the tinny voice came through the speaker again. “Cancel the suspicious person alert. It’s a guy going in the building next door.”

  Rankins watched the man speak into the radiophone. “Listen, I’m eating. Don’t bother me unless you see some dude walking up the front steps with an assault rifle, you hear?”

  He slammed the radiophone on the table and went back to his hamburger.

  Rankins drew the knife across the man’s neck and watched the mouthful of food he had just swallowed drop through the wide slit in his throat that extended from one ear to the other. The wad of hamburger dropped from the opening in his esophagus and plopped to his chest before it landed in his lap. His eyelids flew open and his eyes turned up until only the whites were exposed. A double jet of crimson pulsed out of his neck and splattered the window he was facing. His hands clawed at the air, and in slow motion he toppled from the chair landing with a thud on his side on the kitchen floor.

  Rankins carried the knife to the sink. He rinsed it and dried it as though he were doing the dishes after a meal. He barely glanced at the body that still writhed in terminal agony as he walked back to the bedroom. He carried with him a thin-bladed screwdriver that he had taken from a kitchen cabinet drawer.

  At the bedroom closet he kneeled, and with the screwdriver, pried up a floorboard. Reaching down into the space below the floor, he retrieved the small automatic pistol and placed it his trouser pocket.

  He left the apartment building by the same route as he had entered. As he walked down Fern toward his parked van he turned, glanced up at the kitchen window, now streaked with red rivulets.

  * * *

  Conrad said, “
Do you suppose maybe there’s something wrong with his radio?”

  Clemens said, “I’ll bet the prick is just being stubborn and won’t respond.”

  “Jesus, it’s been over an hour since we heard from him.”

  “Let’s wait another fifteen minutes. If he doesn’t answer I’ll go up. Probably wake the bastard.” Clemens leaned back in the chair, laced his hands behind his head. “So, anyway, this broad is comin’ on me like I’m a rock singer…”

  * * *

  Vandergrift put down the magazine she was reading and folded her hands in her lap. Across the room, Dr. Marino was talking into his dictating machine, several charts spread out on the desk in front of him. He stopped and glanced over at Vandergrift. “Bored?”

  “Huh? Oh, I’m just thinking.”

  “Here, want something to read while you’re waiting?” He picked a manila folder from his desk. “I brought home Rankins’ record. Thought I might go over it. So far, I haven’t had the chance.”

  Vandergrift shrugged. “Okay, but is it all right if I interrupt you to ask questions? I probably won’t make much out of the medical terminology.”

  “I don’t think you’ll have much trouble understanding it. Most of it is in straightforward English. Maybe a little jargon. Sure, yell if you get stuck.”

  She reached forward to take the chart. He said, “Normally, this stuff is doctor-patient confidential material, but I don’t see how it will make any difference in this case.”

  She smiled and raised her right hand. “I swear it won’t go any further than this room—unless it turns out to be juicy, in which case I’ll only tell the rest of the guys on my shift.”

  Marino went back to his dictating while Vandergrift started reading the chart.

  She scanned the first several pages of typed and dated notations labeled “Initial History and Physical Exam.”

  It related the onset of his back problem to the lifting injury he sustained. His first treatment by the doctor in New Philadelphia was described. Finally, it told of the progression of symptoms leading to his first visit to Dr. Marino’s office. The description of the physical exam included terms, which she did not understand, but she could figure out their meaning from the context of the record.