‘How can I help you, gentlemen?’
Palmer showed him his identification. He nodded. The nurses had apparently already told him there were New York City detectives waiting to see him.
‘You’re interested in Michael Watson?’
‘Yes. Was this a straightforward heart attack?’ Tucker asked.
‘Straightforward?’
‘What my partner means is, did Mr Watson have any history of medical problems? Was there any reason to suspect or expect such an event?’
‘I’m not his personal physician so I am unaware of any chronic health issues, however I can tell you that we’re fairly confident that this was a serious meth overdose.’
‘What?’ Both Tucker and Palmer said.
‘We are contacting the local police about it, of course. His wife is here. She was taken completely by surprise, apparently. We haven’t said anything to her just yet. We’ll do a toxicology in the autopsy and have it all confirmed.’
‘Meth?’ Palmer asked incredulously. ‘He was the warden in the prison.’
‘I can’t comment on anything. I can tell you that he came in on his own steam, in fact. He walked into the ER. He was very hyper, confused, babbling incessantly … classic symptoms. I managed to learn that his doctor at the prison recommended he be examined earlier. My guess is he was already showing symptoms that could suggest heart issues. He didn’t come here right away, apparently. He said he started to feel even worse and finally thought it was best he come directly to the ER. We were setting him up for an EKG when he went into massive heart failure.’
‘His doctor at the prison? Today?’ Palmer asked.
‘Yes, I believe he said today.’
‘Are you aware of the fact that the prison doctor, Dr Crowley, was just killed? Hit-and-run?’ Tucker asked.
Dr Friedman shook his head. ‘I hadn’t heard. How horrible.’
‘OK, we’d like to see the autopsy report when it’s completed,’ Palmer said and gave Dr Friedman his card.
‘I’ll give you a call. Isn’t it unusual for the New York City police department to be up here?’ he asked.
‘We’re on a case that started there and has some tracks up here,’ Palmer explained.
Friedman nodded.
‘Thank you,’ Tucker said. ‘Meth overdose? This is weird. You’d think if he were a user, that he would have shown signs earlier.’ Tucker said as they left the hospital. ‘Of course, his wife could be covering up, pretending surprise.’
‘A warden on drugs?’
‘It’s weird.’
‘Let’s go back and speak with Gerald Spenser,’ Palmer said. ‘I want to see if we can learn any more as to what a New York City priest had to do with an inmate in an upstate New York prison and maybe what he had to do with Warden Watson. I wasn’t happy with his answers and reactions. He knows something he was reluctant to tell us.’
‘That intuition thing again?’
‘When in doubt, whip it out,’ Palmer said.
They didn’t get back into the city until nearly nine, having stopped on the way for a quick burger. They thought it was still early enough to pay Gerald a visit at the rectory and headed directly to it. There was only a dim light on inside so they suspected he wasn’t there, but after they rang the doorbell, lights went on quickly and moments later, Gerald appeared, dressed in a blue robe and black slippers.
‘Did you catch him?’ was his immediate question.
‘Not yet, Mr Spenser,’ Palmer said, ‘but we have a few more questions and hope you can help us with some information.’
‘What?’ he asked not making any indication that he was going to let them in.
‘When I asked you earlier if Father Martin was heavily involved with prison inmates, you said he was … I think you said something about troubled souls …’
‘Yes, yes,’ Gerald replied, visibly impatient. ‘He was a leader in a program for convicts. I told you.’
‘Did it specifically take him to a maximum security facility in upstate New York, Woodbourne, New York, to be precise?’
‘Among others, I believe, yes.’
‘How often?’
‘I’d have to check his calendar to answer that.’
‘What about the warden there, Mr Watson? Did they know each other well?’
‘I don’t recall him mentioning the warden before he went up there to visit inmates, so I can’t tell you how well he knew him, or even if he knew him before the visits.’
‘Any recent messages from Warden Watson for Father Martin?’
‘No. I don’t recall any message from any Warden Watson.’
‘It’s not just any Warden Watson,’ Tucker said dryly. ‘It’s the warden of the maximum security prison in Woodbourne.’
‘I have no recollection of messages,’ Gerald said, the corners of his mouth dripping into his chin.
‘What about these so-called troubled souls then? Did you keep track of the ones with whom he met?’ Palmer asked sharply.
‘It wasn’t exactly the same as a doctor and his patients, Detective. We didn’t keep records like that.’
‘So you still don’t recall him ever mentioning this man Bradley Morris, or him writing anything about him?’
‘No,’ he said quickly. ‘I told you that the first time.’
‘If you didn’t keep records like a doctor, how can you be so certain so fast?’ Tucker asked.
‘I’m trying to be as helpful as I can,’ Gerald replied. ‘I didn’t recall that name when you asked before and I don’t now. Except of course … because of …’
‘I’m still puzzled as to why Father Martin agreed to meet with him so readily,’ Palmer said.
‘I’ve already explained that Father Martin was that sort of priest, compassionate and accessible. It’s not a big mystery.’
‘On the contrary,’ Palmer said. ‘It is rapidly becoming a bigger and bigger mystery. If you know something more and are hesitating …’
‘Why would I do such a thing?’ He blew out some air and shook his head. ‘Look, I’m still quite upset. We were together a long time. It’s like losing a close member of your family.’
‘What are you going to do now?’ Tucker asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You lost your employer, your job, I imagine,’ he replied.
‘I’ve been offered something else,’ Gerald said. ‘I’m leaving next week for Pittsburgh.’
‘So quickly? How could you be offered something so quickly?’ Tucker asked as if he was angry about it.
‘Father Martin left a very high recommendation in case I ever needed it,’ he said calmly.
‘How clairvoyant he must have been,’ Palmer said.
‘No. Simply considerate and caring. Rare these days, I know,’ Gerald said. ‘But we always hope a man like that will influence others. Is there anything else? I was just going to bed. I’ve actually taken a sleeping pill.’
‘As soon as you get up in the morning, check his calendar. I’ll call you to find out precisely how often he visited the prison in Woodbourne,’ Palmer said sharply.
‘Why don’t you just check with the prison?’ Gerald suggested. ‘Call this warden directly. I’m sure they have records of whomever visits, especially maximum security. They’re sure to be even more accurate.’
‘Warden Watson is dead,’ Tucker said. ‘He died today.’
‘Dead?’
His reaction was dramatic.
‘Are you sure you don’t recall him leaving messages for Father Martin, perhaps yesterday, today?’
‘What? No. How did he die?’
‘Why are you concerned if you don’t recall him at all?’ Tucker asked.
‘He was another human being, Detective Browning. We should all be concerned about our fellow man. No man is an island.’
‘Yeah, we’ll see who is and isn’t an island,’ Palmer said. ‘Check your books. I want to know what information you have. I’ll be calling you in the morning,’ he emphasized.
> ‘And let us run the investigation,’ Tucker added dryly. ‘You leave your next address with us as well. You’re a major witness in this murder case.’
‘Oh, absolutely. I knew to do that,’ Gerald said and then backed up and closed the door.
They stood looking at the closed door a moment before turning away.
‘A regular cunt of a guy,’ Tucker said. ‘Makes my skin crawl actually.’
‘Something is rotten in the state of New York,’ Palmer said.
‘Shakespeare returns in the nick of time,’ Tucker quipped.
Seven
It was as if killing Father Martin hastened his rejuvenation. In fact, he seriously considered the possibility that as he delivered justice, he was rewarded with servings of youth. Of course, in his case his appetite for it was ravenous. All of his appetites were. Not only was he hungry again, but he was moving even faster, and when he paused at a men’s store front window and studied his reflection in the glass, he thought he indeed looked younger. Invigorated and encouraged, he entered the store.
The salesman behind the counter looked up in shock. Bradley could read his thoughts. What the hell does this hobo want in here where a pair of socks is probably more money than he has all week?
‘I need a full set of clothes,’ he said. ‘A pair of pants, a shirt and a jacket and tie, as well as socks and underwear. Keep it under $1500,’ he added and put the money on the counter.
The salesman looked at the bills and then at Bradley. Without saying a word, he glanced at his racks. Bradley could hear the cash till adding up in the man’s head.
‘I think we can fix you up very nicely,’ he said. ‘Right this way, Mr …?’
‘Morris. I’m Bradley Morris,’ he said pointedly. He said it as if he expected the salesman to recognize his name. For a moment the man wondered if he should and then he smiled, nodded and went to the racks. After all, wasn’t it a well-known legend that Howard Hughes lived like a hobo?
A little over an hour later, Bradley emerged. He needed a haircut and a shave, of course, but other than that, he cut a pretty handsome figure, he thought. He was standing straighter. His shoulders looked firmer and his stomach felt firmer as well. He still had hundreds of dollars, thanks to the bundle he took off the taxicab driver, so he walked briskly looking for a men’s hair salon. He found one that advertised serving walk-ins and entered. Never before had a haircut and a shave helped him feel as good as this one did. The wrinkles he had anticipated under his facial hair weren’t half as bad as expected. He sucked in the aroma of the aftershave, left his stylist a nice tip, and headed uptown. He knew exactly where he was going next.
On his way he stopped to have some lunch. He thought he would just have a burger, but he ordered a salad, French fries and a chunk of the better-than-sex chocolate cake for dessert. All he could think of was that some divine power was inserting itself into his life. What he had done in the past, his own sins, were obviously nowhere as large in the eyes of the Deity as what they had done to him. He was being restored to continue the pursuit of justice and the distribution of punishment. He beamed as he walked and then, when he saw a young, attractive woman in a green skirt and jacket smile at him, he felt his sexual urges come rushing back into him like an incoming tide. He was so happy he thought he might scream.
This tide brought with it another idea. He could go back to see his mother. She wouldn’t be afraid now and he would promise her to return her money and more. Why not? He owed her so much. Funny, he thought, how he had never felt this remorse as strongly as he did now. Was that another consequence of his renewal?
I’m going to be a better person, he concluded. I’m going to be a good guy after I do what I have to do.
It brought laughter to his lips. People passing by looked at him and smiled. He wasn’t threatening to them. They didn’t see him as ugly or dangerous now that he was clean and in these expensive clothes. They were amused by his glee. This was wonderful; this was a whole new identity, truly a new life, the new life that they had promised. The restoration brought promise, hope, optimism and confidence. He knew just how he was going to finance this new beginning, too. He knew just how he would milk them. Again, this wasn’t evil. They owed him. It was not extortion; it was justice.
Yes, he thought, it would be great to surprise his mother this time. He knew where she worked. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.
Onward, he told himself and hailed a taxi.
He got out in front of Folio’s and gave the cab driver a very good tip.
Makes up for my last taxi ride, he thought, and laughed. He wasn’t sure which department his mother worked in or what floor, so he went to the information counter to his right. The young woman behind the counter was typing on a computer keyboard. He could tell from the expression on her face that it had nothing to do with her work. She didn’t look his way so he grunted and she nearly leaped out of her seat.
‘Oh, sorry. How can I help you?’
‘I’m looking for a saleslady. Her name’s Ceil Morris.’
Without responding, she looked at a directory and then said, ‘Ladies lingerie, third floor.’
‘Hey, thanks,’ he said and flipped her what he was convinced was a winning smile. It simply brought a look of surprise to her bloated face.
He got into the elevator and then stepped out on the third floor. For a few moments, he stood there gazing about, hoping to spot her and sneak up on her. When he didn’t see her, he moved quickly to another woman serving a customer.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Morris,’ he said interrupting. ‘She works here.’
The saleslady looked up at him. ‘Ceil? Oh. She didn’t report to work today.’
‘Didn’t report?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know, sir. Please excuse me. I’m with a customer,’ she said.
He stood there glaring at the two of them and then turned around and headed for the elevator.
It was his fault, he thought. She was so disturbed by the events yesterday, she was sick, especially if she had discovered what he had taken.
He hailed another cab and nervously sat while the driver battled traffic.
‘Don’t you know any shortcuts?’ he demanded when they were locked in a jam of trucks and cars. Just like the younger man he used to be, he had no tolerance nor any patience for delay or disappointment.
The driver glanced at him as if he had asked a very stupid question and shook his head.
‘Fuck this, then,’ Bradley said and got out without paying his tab.
‘Hey!’ the driver cried.
Bradley kept walking.
‘Hey, you son of a bitch!’
He ignored him and quickly lost himself in a group of pedestrians crossing a street. He vaguely realized he would have to walk almost twenty blocks, but he didn’t hesitate or even think about the subway. He just kept walking, a ball of rage twirling about in his stomach.
It took him the better part of an hour because of the crowds and traffic, but when he turned the corner and headed toward his mother’s brownstone, he didn’t even think of the distance he had covered nor the fact that he had been able to do it. Less than two days ago, he was dying in some hospital room. He charged up the short steps and went to the directory, found his mother’s name and pressed the accompanying button. He waited and then pressed it again, waited and pressed it one more time.
Maybe she’s out, he thought. Maybe she’s just decided she doesn’t want to go to work. Or maybe she’s so sick, she’s in bed and can’t get to the buzzer. He looked up and down the street and considered what he should do next when he realized the outside door was not quite shut. It was the same way it had been when he’d first confronted his mother.
He pried it open as he had done before and stood in the alcove. Moments later, the inner door opened and he faced an elderly lady with curly gray hair and glasses as thick as goggles. The sight of him right in front of her caused her to gasp
and step back.
‘Sorry,’ he said and entered. Without looking back, he went to the elevator and pressed the button for floor three. When it opened, he went down to his mother’s apartment and pressed the buzzer on that door. Then he knocked. He waited, pressed the buzzer and knocked harder. If he hadn’t been told she was sick and unable to come to work, he might have left, but he kept thinking of her inside, in her bed, maybe in trouble. He thought about it a little longer and then stepped back and turned his shoulder to hit the door hard. The frustration and rage wouldn’t subside. He hit the door again and heard the wood frame crack. Then he stepped farther back and kicked it at the lock. The door flew open.
He stood there gasping, exhausted, but ecstatic at his jolt of energy and strength.
‘Mom!’ he called as he entered. He closed the door as best he could now with the lock shattered, and went directly to her bedroom.
The bed was empty, but made.
‘Mom!’
It wasn’t much of an apartment. In moments he had covered the bathroom, kitchen and living room. She wasn’t there. He looked at the sofa upon which he had collapsed when he first came and then he sat and stared at the wall. If she didn’t go to work, where did she go? Probably to the doctor, he thought and nodded. Yeah, the doctor. He’d wait.
He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, he realized he had fallen asleep. He wasn’t sure how long he had slept, but it was obvious she hadn’t returned. Frustrated and impatient, he rose and paced around the room, when he suddenly noticed a business card on the table by the sofa.
He picked it up and read it.
It was a card from a police detective, a Palmer Dorian. There was another number on the back, too. Why was there a police detective’s card on the table? he wondered and then thought his mother had gone to the police or called them after she had realized he had robbed her.
My own mother was turning me in, he thought. She doesn’t understand. I’m not the bad guy here. Why didn’t she feel sorry for me, forgive me? How could she turn me in?
He shoved the card into his pocket. Under the circumstances, he didn’t want to be here when she returned after all. When he stepped out of the apartment, the elevator doors opened and that same elderly lady whom he had confronted about an hour and a half ago stepped out.
Life Sentence Page 10
