Public Murders

by Bill Granger

  It was spectacular and all largely unnecessary.

  And it annoyed Traffic Policeman James McGarrity, whose beat included the street in front of the theater. The situation was ruining business at the parking garage up the street. Still, he supposed, it couldn’t be helped. Like any interested spectator, he stood in the street and watched the comings and goings of the medical examiners and homicide investigators.

  Matthew Schmidt and Terrence Flynn had arrived at the theater at eleven thirty-five, along with Karen Kovac, who had been in their office when the call came in from the beat man sent to the theater. The police had received their first call—placed, as it turned out, by Gloria Miska from her booth—at ten fifty-one A.M. The squad from First District station had arrived three minutes later. After a preliminary investigation they had notified Area One Homicide.

  Schmidt thought to call Sid Margolies at home. Sid had the day off but went back on duty without reluctance. His wife was in Buffalo, New York, visiting relatives, and Sid Margolies did not like to sit at home alone.

  Now Margolies stood in a corner of the lobby, talking to Maxwell Hampstead, Bonni Brighton’s personal agent, who had arrived from New York that morning and gone straight to the theater.

  Karen Kovac had been asked to talk to Gloria Miska. She was delighted with the assignment—her first—but she did not show it.

  Three other homicide investigators from Area One were stalking the small shops along the street to see if anyone had spotted those who fled by the alley fire-exit door when the murder occurred.

  Flynn sat on a corner of the desk in the office and tried to question Robert Fredericks. The diminutive movie critic was still shivering as he spoke.

  It appeared Matt Schmidt had nothing to do.

  He stood by the ticket booth and surveyed the confusion. He felt in his shirt pocket for a toothpick, found it, and began to elaborately pick his yellowed teeth. He wondered what he was not doing that should be done. He was sixty-one minutes behind the killer.

  A moment before, he had ordered two burly uniformed men from First District to seize the film can from the television camera crew. It had attracted his interest after one of the cameramen told a detective he had instinctively turned on the film when the theater doors were flung open by the panicked audience. Tom Bruce protested the seizure, and Schmidt ignored him. He told the patrolman to take the film to the lab and get it developed.

  Perhaps they had a picture of the killer.

  “Look Lieutenant,” said Tom Bruce. “I can’t go back to the station and tell them you took my film.”

  “Sure you can,” said Schmidt, “You’re aiding the police in an investigation. Eyewitness News is to be congratulated.”

  Bruce brightened. “Will you say that?”

  “I just said it,” said Matt Schmidt. He threw the toothpick into the can of sand.

  “No, I mean on camera.”

  Schmidt considered it. If he didn’t there might be a real howl from the station. You could never trust the media in a thing like this, seizing notes and film and such. On the other hand, Tom Bruce appeared to be a moron, and if Matt Schmidt congratulated Eyewitness News for aiding a police investigation by turning over important film, it would square any potential beef.

  “Sure,” he said. And Tom Bruce rushed away to set up the camera crew.

  At that moment Jack Donovan and Leonard Ranallo strolled into the lobby.

  Schmidt nodded to Ranallo. “Why are you here, Jack? Want your old job back in the department?”

  “It’s about the park murders,” Jack Donovan said. He looked glum.

  “As you can see, we’re into movie murders now.”

  “Yes. They want to set up a special task force combining you guys and the state’s attorney’s office. To deal with the park murders. Mario DeVito is running the criminal division for now. I’m detached.”

  “Christ,” said Schmidt. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Donovan. He glanced at Ranallo, who looked equally glum.

  “I know,” said Ranallo. “I don’t like it either. But we got pressure from City Hall.”

  “I see,” said Schmidt.

  “What do you have here?”

  “Bizarre,” said Schmidt. He mentally recalled the awkwardly sprawled body of Bonni Brighton. “A movie actress. Or a whore who plays in movies. Strictly porn. She was in the film they’re showing here.” He made a face. “Making a personal appearance. God.” He glanced at the office. “Anyway, about ten thirty this morning she arrived at the theater and went into the theater with blubber-boy over there, the one talking to Flynn. He’s with one of the papers. He says he was doing a story on her, on the ‘art of the porn film.’ These people can be real assholes, you know.”

  Ranallo nodded.

  “So someone came up behind them and damn near cut her head off and left the knife sticking in her. No one saw him, of course.”

  “Did the reporter do it?”

  “No. Unfortunately. He doesn’t appear to be strong enough to stab anything tougher than a rare steak. Whoever did it must be an iron man.”

  “The park murders,” Donovan said. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

  “Sure. If we don’t get this guy in the next four hours, we’ll have all the time in the world. We’ll be able to put this down with the park killings. All open cases, forever. I even called up Sid Margolies at home because I thought—well, when I heard the call, I was confused, I suppose. I thought it was another park murder.”

  “But in a theater.”

  “I was confused,” said Schmidt. “I’ve had those murders on my mind all week.”

  “You sound down,” said Jack Donovan.

  “Yeah,” said Schmidt. He stared at Karen Kovac who was still interviewing Gloria Miska. “The decoy didn’t work worth a damn this morning. She and Flynn got separated, and she almost got arrested.”

  But Jack Donovan did not hear. He was staring at the large black-and-white poster in the lobby.

  “Is that her?”

  “Who?”

  “Bonni Brighton.”

  “Yes. Except she doesn’t look like that any more.”

  “Blond?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And blue eyes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Killed with a knife.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where did the killer get her?”

  “In the neck,” said Matt Schmidt.

  “The same as the others.”

  Schmidt looked at Donovan. He shook his head. “I told you I was confused.”

  “Maybe I’m confused now too.”

  “We can’t tie together every unsolved murder of a blond woman.”

  “Sure. Just a random killing, a murder without motive.”

  Schmidt bit his lip. “There’s nothing to tie them together.”

  “You did it unconsciously, Matt. That’s why you called Margolies at home.”

  Schmidt thought for a moment.

  Donovan said, “We tied together the two women in the park because they were both in the park. But there’s more to tie this murder with the other two. The same type of victim. The same method of murder. And in the morning. Friday morning. Around the same time the others were killed.”

  “I don’t know,” said Matt Schmidt. “Let’s go into the theater and you take a look at her before they carry her out.”

  Two spotlights had been set up in the semidarkness of the theater. Though all the interior lights had been turned on, it was not bright enough for the evidence technicians and the police department photographer.

  The spotlights flooded the body of Bonni Brighton with light. They had not moved her yet. She was still sprawled, the knife hooked on the seat back. Her mouth and eyes were open and her dress and face and the seats around her were splattered with her blood.

  “Damn it,” said Jack Donovan. He would not be sick, but he would not forget the sight either.

  “It looks like a butcher knife, doesn’t it?” said Ranallo.
r />   Schmidt nodded.

  “Hey, Loo?” said one of the uniformed men. “Loo” was common departmental slang for “lieutenant.”

  “Look it. There’s a tape recorder. It was on and the battery ran down.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Under her chair. There was some blood on it. One of the guys just found it.”

  “Watch it for prints but I’ll bet it belongs to the reporter in there talking to Sergeant Flynn. Go see. And see if someone can find a battery, go see if there was anything on it.”

  “Well,” said Jack Donovan. “What are we going to do, Matt?”

  “Whatever you say,” said Schmidt. He looked sour.

  “It’s not my fault,” said Jack Donovan. “I didn’t want to interfere.”

  “The brass is turning all this into a circus. It isn’t going to catch a murderer.”

  “I know,” said Jack Donovan.

  Schmidt nodded. “Like you said, it isn’t your fault. You’ve been square with me since this thing started.”

  “There’s heat on the park case now,” said Ranallo. They stood near the body. He looked at it again. “This isn’t part of the park case. We don’t need more heat by tying it in. Let’s just get someone like Flynn or one of the other investigators to handle this, and you guys get on the park murders.”

  Schmidt didn’t say anything. Jack Donovan looked at him and tried to figure out what Schmidt wanted him to say.

  “Look, Chief,” said Donovan at last. “I think there may be a connection and they put me in charge of the investigation, so I think we should investigate. Let Matt go after this one and if there’s no connection, we’ll drop it and go to the park case. But if there is a connection, maybe we’ll be more lucky this time.”

  Ranallo said, “Okay. It’s your neck.”

  “I know,” said Donovan. “Everyone keeps reminding me.”

  “I’m going to leave you both then.”

  Schmidt turned to Ranallo. “Chief, there’s a TV crew out there. They made a film by accident when the doors of the theater were flung open right after the murder. It’s a million to one, but maybe we have the killer on the film.”

  Ranallo gaped at him. “You want me to ask the TV crew to turn over the film?”

  “Not exactly. I took it already.”

  “Jesus Jumping Christ, Schmidt, are you crazy?” Ranallo said.

  “Just a minute,” said Matt Schmidt. “It’s all right.”

  “It’s not all right,” said Ranallo, who was very sensitive to the rights and privileges claimed by the press.

  Schmidt explained that Tom Bruce could be easily mollified and Ranallo, once convinced that the seizure of film had been patched over, readily agreed to be interviewed for the camera. He left Donovan and Schmidt in the theater and walked out.

  “How will you recognize the killer if he’s on film?” asked Donovan.

  “He’ll look guilty.”

  Donovan waited.

  “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, I guess. But I hate this goddamn interference all the time. First it’s Ranallo, then the state’s attorney’s office. It isn’t your fault, I know, but you’re part of the problem.”

  Still Donovan waited.

  “When Maj Kirsten was murdered,” he said at last. “I had this little black kid. He’s listed in the report. He discovered the body.”

  “His name was Washington,” said Donovan.

  “Yes,” said Schmidt. “You remember the name. I wanted to know why he decided to pee in the bushes more than a quarter mile from where he was playing ball. That’s how he discovered her body, you see.”

  Donovan nodded.

  “He said he didn’t see anything. I talked to him a long time afterward. And Sid Margolies talked to him. Sid is very patient with kids. He can talk them out of their circles—you know how kids always talk in circles? Margolies can think like that. But that kid wouldn’t say shit. Which I think means he saw something. Or someone.”

  “So you think he’ll identify the killer?”

  “No. We couldn’t hope for that. All I want is for the killer to be on that film. And for Washington to see it and maybe, just for a moment, flinch. Or give some indication he has tripped his memory back to that day in the park. The same with the others, the girls who have been assaulted in the park—Angela Falicci was a student at the Art Institute. It happened right after the Kirsten murder. I don’t know if any of this will work, but it’s a helluva lot more solid that anything we’ve had before.”

  “And if he ran out the alley entrance?” said Donovan, indicating the open exit door.

  “Then maybe there’s something else. Maybe the knife can be traced. Maybe that pile of rotting flesh in there—that theater manager—can remember something. Jack, I feel it. I really feel it.”

  “Yes,” said Donovan. He was elated. “So do I. I think you’re closer than you’ve been. Than we’ve been.”

  “All right,” said Matt Schmidt with a smile. He considered shaking Donovan’s hand but rejected the thought. “We’ve been.”

  “When can we arrange our movie?”

  “You want to do it on the West Side?” He meant the Criminal Courts building.

  “Fuck no. Let’s do it downtown. Halligan has a big conference room and a projector. We can run it there. Can you get the film developed by tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “Seven o’clock then?”

  “Sure,” said Schmidt. “Now you can do me a favor, if you want.”

  Donovan nodded.

  “I want to bring Karen Kovac in on this. All the way. Attach her to the special investigation or whatever the hell they’re calling it.”

  “Why?”

  Schmidt shrugged. If he said he liked her, Donovan would get the wrong impression. “She could use a break.”

  Donovan nodded. “Done,” he said.

  “You’re not too bad for a lawyer,” said Schmidt.

  “Speaking of that, Mario told me late yesterday that Seymour Weiss is getting a trial date tomorrow and his lawyer wants to plead down. You can tell Flynn that.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “He knows he’s got to do some time. I think we can make it easy on him. Three years minimum.

  Schmidt nodded. It was the way things worked. If the state’s attorney’s office and the defense did not agree on a plea before trial, there would be a long, expensive trial after many continuances and, if there was a conviction, there would be an equally long appeal of that conviction. But in this case, Flynn—a policeman—and two other cops were the key prosecution witnesses, and because Flynn would not go away or be frightened away, the defense wanted to plead guilty to reduced charges. And the state would make the deal to clear the case from the books. It was a form of plea bargaining and, in an imperfect way, it made the criminal justice system function.

  “Three years,” said Matt Schmidt. “I better wait to tell Flynn. He won’t like it, and he was almost human today.”

  Donovan nodded.

  “The girl?”

  “Turned out she was a runaway like we thought. From Rochester, New York. Thirteen years old.”

  Kathleen’s age, Donovan thought.

  Schmidt said. “They brought her down gently at Henrotin. She was on drugs pretty bad. They think she might be a little mental; they’re going to give her tests.”

  “I’m surprised Terry didn’t just shoot him,” said Jack Donovan.

  Schmidt shrugged.

  15

  Sid Margolies found the light switch in the white-walled room and turned the lights off. At the same time the projector flickered on, and the sixteen-millimeter film began to unwind slowly through the machine.

  The first scene was of women on a beach. It appeared to be the Oak Street Beach and they could see the tall buildings of Michigan Avenue in the background. One woman in a bathing suit posed for the camera and smiled. Though there were men on the beach, the pictures were mostly of women.

  Then they s
aw Tom Bruce with a microphone in his hand. He was obviously speaking, but there was no sound.

  “We didn’t bother about sound,” said Terry Flynn. “It’s funnier this way.”

  Karen Kovac smiled.

  In the next sequence of the unedited film the camera focused on a poster in the lobby of the movie theater, the black-and-white photograph of Bonni Brighton.

  “They must’ve shot that when they came in,” said Margolies. He stood along the side wall; the others were seated.

  They saw the door of the theater suddenly flung open.

  “Stop,” said Matthew Schmidt.

  The film stopped. The first face, grainy and blurred, seemed to belong to a dark man. He had black hair, cut close to the scalp; his eyes were wide and frightened.

  “Looks like a black,” said Sid Margolies. Margolies lit a cigarette, and the plume of blue smoke filtered across the intense light of the projector.

  “I don’t think so,” said Terry Flynn. They all stared at the freeze frame. “More like a Dago. He was the first one out of the joint.”

  “You know what this reminds me of,” said Karen Kovac.

  They waited.

  Her voice was clear and low. “When they showed the movie about Kennedy. From Dallas. When he was killed.”

  They didn’t say anything.

  “Is this the door on the aisle where the murder happened?” asked Jack Donovan.

  “Yeah,” said Matt Schmidt. “That’s a break. It would seem likely the killer would run out of the theater by the most direct route—up the aisle where the murder happened.”

  The film advanced. The door in the theater seemed to swing nearly shut and then was flung open again.

  “Stop,” said Schmidt to the deputy sheriff operating the film.

  The next man was tall with broad shoulders and he wore a light zippered jacket, gray in color, and a gray work shirt. The focus seemed better than on the first subject. The eyes of the second man were wide too and very blue.