Life Sentence

by Andrew Neiderman

  ‘Oh, absolutely. Redemption,’ Simon said. ‘We’ve been working on a way to get them to that goal faster. Not brainwashing them,’ he added quickly. ‘Nothing like that. Father Martin wouldn’t stand for such a thing anyway, I’m, sure. The whole point is that the sinner had to willingly find his remorse and believe in redemption himself.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They turned as Mrs Goodman entered with a tray upon which there were two sandwiches, two glasses of lemonade and two dishes of coleslaw.

  ‘Mrs Goodman makes the coleslaw herself, too,’ Simon said as she put it on the table. ‘She’s another great perk for me,’ he added.

  Mrs Goodman glanced at him, not sure she liked being classified as a perk. He smiled at her nevertheless. She looked at Gerald and then left the office.

  ‘Not the greatest personality,’ Simon leaned over to whisper, ‘but worth the sacrifice. She cooks and bakes and takes such good care of me, my mother would be jealous.’ He smiled and reached for his sandwich. ‘The lemonade is homemade, too. Oh, I said that.’

  Gerald smiled. The sandwich did look good. He took a bite and nodded. ‘Terrific.’

  ‘Enjoy. You deserve some comfort and good food after what happened.’

  Gerald drank some lemonade and nodded again. ‘Haven’t had such fresh lemonade since I sold it myself on a street corner when I was a little boy,’ he told Simon, who laughed.

  ‘Grew up in the country, did you?’

  ‘Yes, in Connecticut, actually.’

  ‘I was a city boy, which is why I do enjoy being out here,’ Simon said. ‘Even though I have little free time. This work is quite demanding.’

  ‘What sort of a doctor are you?’ Gerald asked, before biting into his sandwich and drinking his lemonade.

  ‘I’m in research solely, pure research, although I could be a family physician. I specialize in the study of aging.’

  ‘Aging?’

  ‘Yes, aging is really a disease, you see. If you think of it that way, the way you should think of it, you can then think in terms of a cure.’ Simon smiled and leaned in to whisper again. ‘Some of my benefactors think I’m working on that solely and that someday soon I’ll restore them to their youth.’ He chuckled.

  Gerald thought his eyes rolled and his face bubbled. He looked at the window and thought it had clouded up outside. Then he looked at the sandwich in his hand and suddenly felt a little nauseous.

  Dr Oakland continued to talk, but his words ran into each other so that Gerald had difficulty understanding. In fact, they soon became more of a single, long note.

  ‘I …’ Gerald attempted to speak.

  Dr Oakland nodded, smiled and ate the rest of his sandwich.

  Gerald seemed to float over the table, and sink slowly to it like a balloon losing air. He didn’t hit it hard. He actually lowered his forehead to it gently.

  Simon ate his last bite and then rose and went to his phone.

  ‘Mrs Randolph, send in the gurney please,’ he said into the receiver. Then he returned to the table and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

  The two attendants rolled the gurney in with Mrs Randolph following. They said nothing. They lifted Gerald and gently spread him over the gurney. One attendant began to roll it out and the other took the small suitcase.

  ‘Get him prepared for the first-stage treatment,’ Simon told Mrs Randolph. ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor,’ Mrs Randolph said.

  She followed the attendants out and closed the door. Simon went to the phone and called Mr Dover, who picked up on his cellphone just as he was being taken to the Waldorf.

  ‘Don’t screw up anything with this one, Simon,’ Mr Dover said.

  ‘Oh, I’ll be extra careful from here on in, Mr Dover.’

  ‘Umm,’ Henry Dover said. ‘So will we all, Simon. So will we all.’

  Simon hung up and looked out the window. It was a nice view. He meant every word of it.

  At least Mr Dover is being efficient, he thought, presenting me with another specimen rather than just eliminating it.

  Waste not, want not.

  No matter how far we progress, how many wonderful new things we create, how funny it is that the old adages still ring true.

  Don’t dilly dally, Simon, he told himself as he headed for the door, a rolling stone gathers no moss.

  He laughed. It felt good. He had been so frightened earlier. Now, he felt he was in charge again.

  Eleven

  Palmer looked down at the battered body of Jack Temple. Despite what had been done to him, the dead man wore a grimace that resembled an insane smile. Perhaps, as his life was being beaten out of him, he realized the irony of being so well-off, powerful, seemingly completely protected and now so easily the victim of what looked increasingly like some madman with enough smarts to get into Jack Temple’s private offices and pull off this crime. In the end Temple was just as vulnerable as some poor slob wandering the back streets at night in the city, prey for the parasites and leeches that bore some resemblance to mankind, or maybe personified the true evil nature lurking inside us all.

  The CSI unit was completing their sweep. They had already lifted the prints from the small marble statue that had been used as a club and, through the miracle of computer technology, had matched them with the prints lifted from the icon in Father Martin’s living room. It was the same man who now boldly declared himself to be Bradley Morris. It was as if he were challenging law enforcement, calling him at his home. He was daring them to catch him. But why pretend to be a dead man, a convicted felon confirmed murdered in prison and buried by his own mother? Why then go to her to pretend to be her resurrected, albeit aged son? Was she the only person he thought he could rob? And was that booty enough? Two thousand dollars? It just didn’t make sense unless he was simply some loose canon, a true nutcase.

  The link between the deaths of Dr Crowley, who had provided Bradley’s death certificate, and the warden, who had signed the report of his murder in the penitentiary, with Father Martin, who had a spiritual program for the inmates in that penitentiary, was far more intriguing. Now, the question was, why Jack Temple?

  Tucker was in the office sifting through papers, searching for clues. Palmer returned to the outer office to speak to Temple’s secretary who was now lying on the small settee, a cold washcloth over her eyes. He saw she was tall with the figure of a runway model. He pulled up a chair. She reached for the cloth and removed it to turn to him.

  ‘I know this is quite a shock,’ he began, ‘but what you can recall now might be the best information we can gather. Can you give me any more detail about the man’s description? You said he was well dressed?’

  ‘Yes, although now that I think of it, his suit was quite wrinkled and creased. He looked like he had slept in it.’

  ‘In that bedroom,’ Palmer said.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said obviously not happy about referring to Jack Temple’s sex pad.

  ‘Let’s take it slowly, top down. His hair. Visualize.’

  ‘Messy. I mean, also looked like he had just got out bed, grayish with some dark brown on his temples, but thin.’

  ‘You didn’t see the color of his eyes?’

  ‘No. I was in such shock seeing him at all.’

  ‘Was he tall, as tall as Mr Temple for example?’

  ‘Yes, at least six feet, although he had bad posture, rounded shoulders.’

  ‘Is there any chance you saw something on his neck?’

  ‘His neck … a dark spot. Like a … tattoo or something,’ she said nodding.

  ‘Do you know if Mr Temple had any contact with a priest in town named Father Martin?’

  She started to shake her head and then stopped. ‘Just a minute,’ she said rising. She returned to her desk and looked at her call sheet. ‘Yes. Day before yesterday there was a call from someone named Gerald Spenser. He said he was Father Martin’s clerk and Mr Temple should call him immediately. It was left on our answering service.’<
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  ‘Let me see that,’ Palmer said joining her. She turned the book so he could read the time of the call. He saw it was right after he and Palmer had returned from Woodbourne and visited Gerald Spenser.

  ‘Did Mr Temple call him back?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, but he doesn’t always make his calls through me. He has a direct personal line.’

  ‘OK, this is helpful,’ Palmer said. ‘Thank you. If you remember anything else about him, no matter how insignificant you might think, please call,’ he said handing her his card.

  She took it and looked down at her desk. She lowered her chin so quickly, he thought she might have fainted.

  ‘You want someone to help you get home?’ he asked.

  ‘Home?’ She looked up. ‘I … there are people to call, things to do. I put all the incoming on the answering service. I’ll have to get back to people.’

  ‘Yes, but maybe not today.’

  She nodded.

  Palmer went into the office just as Tucker hung up the phone at Temple’s desk. He quickly told him what Temple’s secretary had revealed concerning Gerald Spenser.

  ‘So, he knew Father Martin,’ Palmer concluded.

  ‘I knew that already,’ Tucker said. He handed Palmer Temple’s BlackBerry. ‘Father Martin’s number’s there. I called that number right below it, the one marked CI?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s a place called Classic Industries. Check out the address,’ Tucker said.

  Palmer moved to it on the BlackBerry and looked up quickly.

  ‘Yeah, Woodbourne. Maybe we’re starting to connect some dots here. I’ll have Lily back at the precinct on it. In the meantime Wizner called to say Edith Zucker will be at this funeral parlor in an hour,’ Tucker added handing Palmer the address. ‘It’s in Brooklyn. We might as well see if she knows anything that will shed some light on anything here.’

  Palmer agreed and they headed out.

  Because of traffic and some roadworks, it turned out to be a longer ride to Brooklyn than they had anticipated, but Edith Zucker was still there arranging the funeral for her sister when they arrived. She was accompanied by her son Carl and his wife Amy. They were all surprised that New York police detectives were interested in Ceil’s apparent heart attack. They knew absolutely nothing about her confrontation with a so-called elder version of her son Bradley.

  Edith was older than Ceil, but looked far less worse for wear. She was thinner, taller with dark brown hair in an elegant hairstyle. There wasn’t a gray strand in sight. Although her son and daughter-in-law were there to assist her, she apparently was a firm, independent woman. Palmer thought that although there were clear resemblances in their features, it was still difficult to imagine Edith and Ceil were sisters, much less even related.

  ‘I wanted to bring my sister’s body back to Duluth. We have plots reserved there,’ she began immediately after Palmer and Tucker introduced themselves, ‘but she had left instructions to be buried beside Bradley and Preston. We really don’t have any relatives in New York that will bother to come to a funeral.’

  ‘Why are you interested in my aunt’s death?’ Carl asked. ‘Everything points to congestive heart failure.’

  ‘My son is a prominent attorney,’ Edith said as if to justify him quickly asserting himself and getting right to the point.

  ‘Is it true that none of you attended her son’s funeral?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘We didn’t know he had died,’ Edith said. ‘My sister told no one.’

  ‘She was ashamed of him. We all were,’ Carl said.

  ‘Afterward, after she told you, did she say anything at all about his death, the events that in any way seemed unusual?’ Tucker asked.

  ‘What are you after here? The whole damn thing was unusual, if you want to talk about it,’ Carl said. ‘He was killed in prison where people are supposed to be guarded.’

  ‘There is a possibility that someone is impersonating him,’ Palmer said.

  ‘How could anyone do that if he’s dead?’ Amy asked, inserting herself.

  ‘Why impersonate him anyway?’ Carl asked, grimacing. Then something clicked in his imagination. ‘Unless, my cousin was involved with something very valuable and this person was trying to use his identity as a way to get his hands on it. Is that what’s going on? Considering, few people knew or cared he was dead and buried, I suppose that’s possible.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Palmer said.

  ‘Well, how do you know someone is impersonating him? Who said so?’

  ‘Your aunt,’ Tucker said. ‘That’s how we got involved in this. She came to us.’

  ‘Oh, poor Ceil. I tried to get her to move to Duluth,’ Edith said. ‘She was stubborn.’

  ‘Look, here’s my card,’ Palmer said. ‘Should anyone claiming to be Bradley Morris or anyone claiming to have seen him contact you …’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll call instantly,’ Carl said taking the card.

  ‘No one has yet then or ever?’ Tucker asked, to be sure.

  ‘No way,’ Carl said. ‘Mom?’

  Edith shook her head.

  ‘Your nephew did have a pear-shaped birthmark on the right side of his neck, correct?’ Palmer asked.

  ‘Yes and very prominent too,’ she replied. Her eyes widened. ‘Someone who claims to be him has that?’

  ‘Easily duplicated, tattooed ma’am,’ Tucker said.

  She nodded. ‘How bizarre. Tomorrow, when we put poor Ceil in the ground beside her son, I won’t be able to stop wondering if he is really down there.’

  ‘Is there any chance he isn’t?’ Carl demanded sharply.

  ‘A friend of mine in college used to say “in an infinite universe, anything’s possible”,’ Palmer replied.

  ‘That’s no answer,’ Carl countered.

  Palmer shrugged. ‘I don’t have a definitive one yet, but when I do, we’ll let you know. Thanks.’

  They started out. Before they reached the car, Carl Zucker caught up with them. He actually reached out and pulled Palmer’s arm to turn him. ‘You two really disturbed my mother in there. What the fuck is this?’

  ‘We honestly don’t know the answers yet, Mr Zucker. We’re just looking for clues. I’ll tell you that the man either claiming to be your cousin or somehow is your cousin has killed four people since he confronted your aunt.’

  Carl Zucker froze. ‘How did he do it?’

  ‘Three of them with a knife, apparently a kitchen knife.’

  Carl nodded. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Didn’t you go over the case, the reason he was sent up in the first place? He killed a garage attendant with a knife. It’s always been his weapon of choice. My uncle put him under house arrest when he was ten because he slit someone’s dog’s throat. We used to joke about him and say he was going to end up being a world class surgeon or at least a butcher.’

  They stared at him. He looked back at the funeral parlor and then at them. ‘Maybe you should dig up that coffin,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t have enough,’ Tucker said.

  ‘Not enough. Someone’s using his name, has the birthmark on his neck and is killing people with a knife. What aren’t you telling me?’

  ‘There’s a part of this we don’t understand ourselves yet,’ Palmer said. ‘But I promise, as soon as we do, we’ll contact you. Give me your card.’

  Carl did so, but smirked. ‘I got some friends here,’ he said, clearly meaning it to be a threat.

  ‘Lucky you,’ Tucker said. ‘I don’t know anyone in Duluth.’

  He and Palmer got into their car. Carl Zucker watched them drive off.

  ‘Why the hell did we not pick that up with the knife?’ Palmer asked. ‘I didn’t even read the transcript.’

  ‘See?’ Tucker said smiling. ‘Good old-fashioned drudge police work has its place. Start being more like Charlie Chan and less like Kreskin.’

  Palmer smiled. ‘I just have to learn how to be both,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to locate
this Gerald Spenser. Now …’

  Tucker’s phone rang. He listened after saying hello and then closed the lid. ‘Well, lucky us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re off the case. Foreman just said it’s in the hands of the FBI. Something to do with those missing prints. But don’t worry, he says, there’s a new homicide case just dying for us to adopt.’

  Palmer felt a great sense of disappointment. He looked back in the direction of the funeral parlor.

  Actually, he felt more than disappointment. He felt betrayal and that weighed heavier on his conscience and heart.

  ‘Mr Lords is regaining consciousness,’ Mrs Littleton said calmly. ‘I saw his eyes fluttering.’

  Freda glanced at Shirley and then started down the corridor. Shirley remained at the desk, monitoring the other patients and reading her latest issue of The Flash, a rag magazine filled with half truth and innuendos about celebrities as well as candid photos. Some pictures looked doctored, however, and she wondered if they were doing digital enhancements and creations. If people could flock to fake professional wrestling, they would buy lies whether they were in print or in photos, she thought. After a while the line between what was true and what was false, what was real and what was illusion, would fade out altogether. Not enough people seemed to care anyway.

  Mrs Littleton hung back. She was getting gun shy. Every time she opened her mouth lately, one or the other of the two nurses, and now even some of the supporting help, would either be critical or look at her as if she had violated all ten commandants in one swoop. She busied herself with some laundry and kept her mumbling under her breath.

  Freda entered Louis Williams’ room, of course believing him to be a man named Brad Lords. Why question the man’s name or anything for that matter? His eyes were wide open and he was staring at the ceiling.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she asked him.

  He didn’t turn to her. He continued to focus on the ceiling as if he saw something up there. She couldn’t help but look up herself. Although his arms and his torso were strapped in, he could move his forearms a little and open and close his hands.

  In a move that took her completely by surprise, he seized her right hand, but in such a way as to clamp his fingers firmly around her thumb. It was apparently a grip he was accustomed to making, for he did it with a speed and expertise that took away her breath. In seconds, he had her thumb bent so awkwardly, she could feel the pain shooting up her arm and down her chest.