by Parnell Hall
I’d just had time to enjoy that daydream when Sergeant Clark burst in from the hallway. He jerked the door open and peered in suspiciously, as if suspecting I might have been listening at the keyhole. I doubt if the fact that I was standing in the middle of the foyer doing nothing convinced him that I hadn’t been. He probably thought I was feigning a lack of interest. I figured later he’d interrogate the uniformed cop at the door on my movements.
“Do you know what the medical examiner just told me?” Clark demanded.
In my present state of mind, I assumed Clark had asked the question not because he intended to impart any information, but merely to see if I’d overheard the conversation, so I’m afraid my answer was flippant, to say the least.
“Sure,” I said. “The murderer was left-handed.”
Clark’s head jerked around. “Why do you say that?”
I realized he’d taken it seriously. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was a joke. A facetious remark.”
Sergeant Clark stared at me coldly. “Murder is no joke.”
He was right, of course. And ordinarily I wouldn’t have been joking. It was just that the man irritated me so much. With anyone else I wouldn’t have done it.
And, with anyone else, had I done it, they would have recognized a joke as a joke, whether they appreciated it or not. But not Sergeant by-the-book Clark.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I said. “Were you about to tell me what the medical examiner said?”
“That’s right,” Clark said. “Seeing as how it involves you. He said it was just the same as in the Winston Bishop case. The man could have been strangled any time within the last two hours.”
“I see.”
“Which means you could have done it.”
I said nothing.
“Just as you could have done the Winston Bishop and the Darryl Jackson killings.”
Again I said nothing.
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
“Do you really think I’m going to dignify that with a response?”
“You might at least deny it.”
“Is that really necessary?”
He looked at me coldly. “Do you deny the allegation?”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” I said. “I don’t admit it.”
Sergeant Clark looked as if he wanted to strangle me. At least that was the impression that leapt to my mind. And since I had already made a conscious decision to stop using that particular expression, the phrase triggered a strange thought process in my mind. Sergeant Clark was the killer. A deranged homicide sergeant. A demagogue. Drunk with his own power. So infused with thoughts of his own superior skill that he must be right at any cost. Sergeant Clark had not killed Winston Bishop, but he had killed Hard-sell Finklestein. Sergeant Clark had predicted a serial killer, and by god there was going to be a serial killer. Sergeant Clark had killed Hard-sell Finklestein to make his prediction come true.
I looked at Sergeant Clark. I doubt if he realized I had just pegged him for the murderer. If he had, he couldn’t have been so cool, so sure of himself. He just didn’t know who he was dealing with. Try to pin this crime on me, bud? Well the same goes double for you.
“What are you smiling at?” Clark said.
I hadn’t realized I was smiling. But I realized I’d better get a grip on myself. As I’ve said, I’m no hero, and my emotional stability is nothing to brag about. Finding my second dead body in two days was bound to unhinge me. I was sure to crack up sooner or later. It occurred to me that, with Sergeant Clark staring at me here in the apartment of a murdered man, it would be better to make it later. So I made an effort to push aside all ridiculous thoughts of Sergeant Clark’s fancied involvement in the affair.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But as a rational man, I find your suggestion ludicrous. I realize you don’t. So, no, I did not kill Winston Bishop, and, no, I did not kill Mr. Finklestein.”
“And Darryl Jackson?” Clark said.
I didn’t roll my eyes. I did close them for a moment. I opened them, and with a conscious effort to keep the anger out of my voice, said evenly, “Or Darryl Jackson.”
“Good,” said Sergeant Clark. “Whether I choose to believe it or not, I like to have your denial in the records.” Sergeant Clark turned toward the living room. “Walker,” he bellowed.
Detective Walker appeared in the doorway. “Sir?”
“Wrap things up here, will you? This gentleman and I are taking a ride.”
My jaw dropped open. I couldn’t believe it. The son of a bitch was arresting me.
I gawked at him. “We going downtown?” I asked.
He looked at me and smiled that thin smile. “Not just yet.”
That was nice. A reprieve and a threat, all in three words.
“Would it be expecting too much for you to tell me where we’re going?”
“We’re going to the source,” Clark said.
“The source?”
“Yes. The source of all this trouble.”
Jesus Christ. It wasn’t enough that Sergeant Clark was a cold hostile prick. The son of a bitch had to speak in epigrams.
I tried to keep from clenching my teeth. “And where might that be?” I asked.
He looked at me as if I were a moron. “Rosenberg and Stone, of course.”
11.
I MUST SAY, the gathering at Rosenberg and Stone was a lot different than it had been after the first murder.
For one thing, the personnel were different. Absent were Wendy and Janet, the two file clerks, Frank Burke and Sam Gravston. Present from the original gathering were Richard Rosenberg and me.
The added starter was, of course, Sergeant Clark.
The location was also different. Instead of being in the reception area, we were in Richard’s office, behind closed doors.
Outside in the reception area, ready to be summoned at a moment’s notice, were Wendy and Janet and the two file clerks. I sincerely hoped their presence wouldn’t be needed.
Richard was seated at his desk. I was seated in a client’s chair. Sergeant Clark walked back and forth, rubbing his forehead. Richard and I watched him. When the silence became prolonged, Richard raised his eyebrows in inquiry, and with a shake of my head, I told him to keep quiet and not volunteer anything. At any rate, that’s the message I’d attempted to impart—whether Richard took it for that I couldn’t know.
Sergeant Clark stopped pacing and turned to us.
“I have a problem,” he said.
Jesus. Not again.
“A real problem.”
Yes, again.
Fortunately, this time he went on.
“I have three killings involving the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone.”
Richard’s chair creaked as he shifted position in his seat. I knew he wanted to say something and was restraining himself with an effort. He glanced at me. I gave him another warning look. He took a breath, blew it out again. But he held his peace.
“Yeah, three killings,” Clark said. “Which means we are dealing with a serial killer. I suspected as much yesterday, after the murder of Winston Bishop. The murder of Gerald Finklestein today confirms it. These murders are part of a series.”
Richard could contain himself no longer. “You said three murders. You’ve mentioned two.”
Clark looked at him. “The third murder took place last year. The murder of Darryl Jackson.”
Richard looked at me. Richard knew about the murder of Darryl Jackson, of course. The cops had given him a hard time about it. And he knew I’d been involved, though he didn’t know how deeply, and he didn’t know what I had done. As far as Richard knew, I’d gotten into a little trouble because I’d found the body, but the cops had let it drop because the murder had been solved. But he knew enough to know that my involvement in the affair had not been entirely kosher. So the name Darryl Jackson was a warning signal. And Richard’s look to me when he heard it asked a silent question.
I answered it with a hard, st
eady stare.
Richard took the hint, good lawyer he. He turned back to Clark and said, simply, “Go on.”
“In a case like this,” Sergeant Clark said, “we must consider all the possibilities. The murder of Darryl Jackson and the murder of Winston Bishop could have been coincidence. I don’t believe in coincidence, but as I say, we must consider all the possibilities. Against the theory that the crimes were related, we have the fact that the methods were different—one was stabbed and one was strangled—and the fact of the interval of an entire year. Plus the presence of a confessed killer, now residing in jail. None of these are conclusive.
“In favor of the theory we have the fact that two black men living in Harlem called Rosenberg and Stone asking for appointments, and were subsequently found murdered. The discrepancy is the fact that, as I understand it, Darryl Jackson’s purported injury, a broken leg, turned out to be spurious, whereas Winston Bishop’s broken arm was genuine.”
I found myself stirring in my chair. It occurred to me to give myself a good cold, hard stare to hold my peace.
“Now we come to the third murder,” Clark said. “Here we see the pattern repeated, and yet broken. Once again Rosenberg and Stone is called, an appointment made and a client found dead. In this case, the injury is genuine, as in the second murder. The victim has been strangled, as in the second murder. Yet the location is different—Queens. And the victim is not black.”
I could bear it no longer. “And doesn’t that suggest something to you?” I blurted out.
“And what might that be?” Clark asked.
“That while the second and third crimes may indeed be related, the first one is not. That being black and living in Harlem is obviously not part of any pattern. As proved by the third murder. And therefore, the fact that the first two gentlemen were black and lived in Harlem is merely coincidental and therefore does not imply that they are part of the same series.”
“Try to keep calm,” Clark said.
I must admit I had gotten rather heated toward the end of my statement.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I will try to be calm. It is just hard for me to hear things that I know to be untrue stated by you as fact.”
“I’m not stating anything as fact,” Clark said calmly. “I told you we must investigate all possibilities. And that’s what we’re doing—investigating all possibilities. And now, if I may continue.”
I kept my mouth shut, which was what Clark had intended.
“Now,” Clark said, “I was discussing the third murder. I am willing to concede that it is possible that the first two murders were not the work of the same person.” Here he looked at me. “Even though you are not willing to concede the possibility that they were—but let that pass.
“With the second and third murders it is somewhat different. Both men were injured, both men called here for help and both men were found strangled.”
Clark looked at Richard. “Who was it who took the calls?”
“That would be one of my secretaries.”
Clark nodded. “Could we have them in here, please?”
“You may have them in here one at a time,” Richard said. “I’m still attempting to run a business here, and I need my switchboard manned.”
“That will be fine,” Clark said.
Richard picked up the phone and pressed the intercom. “May I see you in my office, please?” he said.
He hung up the phone.
“Who was that?” Clark asked.
“Wendy or Janet,” Richard said.
Clark gave him a look. “Don’t you know?”
“I’ll know when I see her,” Richard said.
I must admit it was nice to see Sergeant Clark confused.
Moments later the door opened and Janet came in. To say she came in hesitantly would be an understatement. It looked as if she wanted to wrap her hair around her and hide in it. She’d been sitting at her desk, of course, when Sergeant Clark brought me in. He wasn’t in uniform, and I wasn’t in handcuffs, but he had to stop at the desk to ask Wendy to tell Richard that Sergeant Clark wanted to see him. Janet had been close enough to overhear, and of course, she and Wendy must have been talking things over ever since we went into the room. So she knew he was a cop. And between the two of ’em, even Wendy and Janet must have had brains enough to realize that Sergeant Clark wouldn’t be escorting me into Richard’s office to sell tickets to the policemen’s ball. So Janet was rather flustered.
“Janet,” Richard said abruptly. “This is Sergeant Clark. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Janet went white as a sheet. Answering questions was not one of her strong suits. She probably had trouble answering her boyfriend’s questions about where she’d like to go out to eat. So answering a police sergeant’s questions was bound to throw her a little.
“Well, now,” Sergeant Clark said. “Miss?...”
“Fishbein,” Janet said, and then tittered slightly, either because her name struck her as funny or out of relief at getting the first question right.
“Miss Fishbein,” Sergeant Clark said. “Were you on the switchboard this morning?”
That threw her for a loop. Even a mind as slow as Janet’s had to have figured this had something to do with yesterday’s murder, seeing as how she didn’t know about today’s murder.
She gawked. “This morning?” she said.
“Yes, this morning. Were you on the switchboard?”
“Of course,” she said. “Wendy and I are always on the switchboard.”
She punctuated the remark by looking at Sergeant Clark as if he were an idiot for not knowing that.
“I see,” Sergeant Clark said. “And did you take a call from a Gerald Finklestein?”
Janet’s jaw dropped open. I have to admit the girl had more brains than I gave her credit for, because she made the connection.
“My god,” she said incredulously. “Is he dead, too?”
12.
EVENTUALLY SERGEANT CLARK got it all sorted out.
Janet had, indeed, taken the call from Hard-sell Finklestein.
However, Wendy had taken the call from Winston Bishop.
Therefore, it was my privilege and pleasure to witness both of those fair damsels submitting to the interrogation of Sergeant Clark.
I can’t say it was the worst time I’d had all day. Looking at Hard-sell Finklestein’s body kind of edged it out. Actually, if I hadn’t been in such deep shit, and therefore not in the best of moods, I actually might have enjoyed it, ’cause it was rather funny. Watching Sergeant Clark try to pin down Wendy and Janet on the time element was sort of like watching a man try to pick up a ball of mercury with chopsticks.
From Janet, the best he could get was this: The phone call from Finklestein was after she came to work, not before, which put it after nine A.M. It was before she went to lunch and not after or during, which put it before noon.
Aside from that, Sergeant Clark had to extrapolate. He had Janet’s virtuous assurance that she had beeped me as soon as the case came in. He had my unsubstantiated word that I had called in in response to that beep at approximately ten-thirty. He had the benefit of his own knowledge that he had called Rosenberg and Stone looking for me shortly after ten-thirty. He had Janet’s solemn hyperbole that she had beeped me the instant she got his call, and my corroboration that that beep had come shortly after I had called the office to get the Hard-sell Finklestein assignment.
Working from the other end, he had the fact that the Tessie the Tumbler case had to have come in first, since I was there signing it up when I was beeped about Finklestein, assuming he was willing to take my unsubstantiated word for that. Knowing Sergeant Clark, I figured he wouldn’t. I figured Tessie the Tumbler was due for a grilling. But letting that pass, he had the fact that apparently she had called for an appointment, and one had been duly given.
Unfortunately, Tessie the Tumbler’s call had been handled by Wendy, which was too bad, since, had it been Janet, she might have been a
ble to remember which call came in first. As it was, Wendy’s best recollection was this: the call had been after she came to work, and before she left for lunch, which pinpointed it between nine A.M. and one P.M.
Nonetheless, barring certain reservations, and pending certain witnesses still to be interviewed, I’m sure even a meticulous man such as Sergeant Clark would have been willing to venture to say that the call from Hard-sell Finklestein had probably come in between ten and ten-thirty.
With regard to the call from Winston Bishop, even less was known. The lapse of an additional twenty-four hours had muddled the otherwise vivid memories of both Wendy and Janet. A severe jogging led to the conclusion that, of the calls from Winston Bishop and Jesus Pagan, Wendy had taken one and Janet the other, though neither was quite sure which was which.
Sergeant Clark found this less than conclusive.
He also found he had only my unsubstantiated word for what had happened there.
I suggested that he apply to Sam Gravston, who had rejected the Winston Bishop job before it was offered to me. That jogged my memory to recollect that Sam Gravston had also rejected the Hard-sell Finklestein case, which jogged Janet’s memory to recollect that she had, indeed, offered Sam the case before offering it to me, making her instantaneous beeping of me an even more extraordinary feat. Or maybe it was after Sergeant Clark’s call that she beeped me instantaneously—by that time my own recollection was getting pretty muddled.
As I’d feared, Sergeant Clark also inquired about the Darryl Jackson phone call. I had hoped that that call had been taken by the long-departed Cheryl, but just my luck, Wendy had taken it. However, with the passage of a year’s time, it was all Wendy could do to remember that she had taken the call at all, even with the gentleman in question having been murdered. The only detail that seemed to have stuck in her mind was the fact that at one point in the inquiry she had been strip-searched, a fact for which she had still not forgiven me. (Please don’t get the wrong idea—I did not strip-search her, a matron did, but she blamed me for it.)
Eventually Wendy and Janet were dispensed with, and the conversation returned to some semblance of sanity.
