In the Shadow of Gotham

by Pintoff, Stefanie

  “Fromley, of course, remains the key,” I said. “Though we now know he is not the killer himself, he remains the link to the murderer. The real killer wanted us to think he was Fromley. He framed the crime scene to resemble Fromley’s handiwork. He sent the package to Isabella containing evidence and a confession in Fromley’s own writing.”

  Alistair shook his head in disbelief. “How could the killer have known so much? The Wingate murder scene was a perfect match to the scene Fromley had fantasized about. He had described it to me in vivid, breathtaking detail—not just once, but time after time.”

  I ran my fingers along the side of the table, thinking aloud. “As you say, the question is how. I can think of a few possibilities. The first is that Fromley liked to talk. If he described this fantasized murder scene to you, then he may have just as easily described it to someone else.” I added, “From what you say, it appears he took a positive delight in sharing his revolting thoughts.”

  Alistair caught my train of thought. “So the question becomes, which person or persons would he have shared this murderous fantasy with? Someone who, in turn, had his own motive for murder—and decided to coopt Fromley’s sick vision in order to frame him.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Someone who is a copycat; he wants his crime to appear as though it were done by a different, known killer, so the investigation will proceed in the wrong direction. Just as our investigation did.”

  “So we must continue to focus upon those persons Fromley was in contact with,” Alistair said, “on the theory one of them is the real culprit.”

  “Which means we look closely at anyone who had access to him or his files.” I watched Alistair’s reaction carefully. Clearly, he was displeased by the suggestion—but to his credit, he responded rationally.

  Though he raised an eyebrow, he said, “I see your point. All of us at the research center have had unfettered access to Fromley. But not one of us knew Sarah Wingate, much less had a motive to kill her.”

  “That we know of,” I said.

  “Fine. Let’s consider the matter in practical terms, then. You have eliminated the possibility that the killer is a woman, which clears Isabella and Mrs. Leab. I cannot fathom Tom or Fred in the role of the killer. Tom is as upstanding and honest a man as you’ll find. In physical terms, Fred is too thin and frail to have managed it. And, while he is an odd duck, I can’t see Horace as the killer, either.” Alistair paused as he searched for the right words. “Horace is awkward and bumbling, whereas the killer was highly sophisticated, able to manage a complicated copycat scenario. And Horace has been distracted lately by personal disappointment. His fiancée called off their engagement quite recently, and he does little but sulk about. Because of it, his work has been irregular of late, though he has continued to come in as scheduled.”

  “What about his gambling?” I asked. “You said he was in debt. The pressure of debt—especially if it’s owed to less-than-understanding bookies—can be tremendous.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Alistair agreed. “But plenty of young men get into a spot of trouble, are helped out of it, and never have issues again. I was one of them, once. I’ve helped Horace with his debts and I can assure you he is a small-time gambler who has been clean of late. He hasn’t asked me for money in at least two months. Besides,” he added, “we can’t seriously think Sarah Wingate was killed for money, can we?”

  “You did find a significant amount hidden under her mattress,” I said.

  “True, but you told me about Mrs. Wingate’s habit of hiding money throughout the house. It was probably hers, not Sarah’s—and besides, it wasn’t taken. Nothing in the house was disturbed. I don’t believe money is the motive responsible here.”

  I tended to agree with Alistair’s assessment. “What about other people? How easily could another professor or student have gained access to your files, or even Fromley himself?”

  Alistair looked uncomfortable. “Well, we don’t have any special safeguards in place. We haven’t really needed them. We rely on an honor system of sorts, where if someone borrows a file, they sign it out. And certainly anyone who wanted could have visited Fromley. We had him under bodyguard protection until recently, but he was free to come and go as he pleased. Though I don’t recall anyone ever visiting. People were afraid of him; they avoided coming to the center because of it.”

  “So we can eliminate no one,” I said, sighing. It was as I suspected, but I had hoped that better precautions were securely in place.

  It was my nagging sixth sense, convincing me there was something he still had not told me, that led me to try once more. “Is there anything you can tell me that you have not already?”

  “Ziele, old boy,” he said, “I assure you, I am an open book in terms of anything you need to know.”

  He managed to look crestfallen, but I still did not trust him.

  “Then,” I continued, “from this point on, I am running a traditional investigation in which everyone is a suspect until I identify the killer. I want to focus anew on our victim and her circle of acquaintances and friends. Someone wanted Sarah Wingate dead—and for a reason that became urgent here.” I tapped the calendar, looking at Tuesday’s date. “Why Tuesday, November seventh? Some particular set of circumstances came to a crisis around this day, making the killer feel he had to take Sarah’s life. If we look hard enough at the people surrounding her, perhaps we can determine the answer. The connection with Fromley—and some hard evidence—should then fall into place.”

  I picked up a pen and grabbed a clean sheet of paper, drawing a large point near its top. “Our focus is on our victim.” I wrote the name Sarah. “But we cannot lose sight that the manner in which she was killed implicates Fromley.” I drew another point, much lower down, and wrote Fromley.

  “Fromley was a special case,” I continued to explain, “because his desire to kill came from pleasure, from fantasies he enjoyed. He would kill because he liked it. But our real killer”—I drew another point across from Fromley and wrote Copycat Killer—“had a specific motivation to target Sarah.” I linked Copycat Killer with Sarah. “And a specific connection to Fromley that he took advantage of.” I finished by connecting Copycat Killer to Fromley. I stepped back to survey the large triangle I had created. “Something connects these three people—but what?”

  Alistair traced the word Killer with his right index finger. “Did any of your suspects have reason to know both Sarah and Fromley?”

  “Lonny Moore could have,” I said. “He, Sarah, and Fromley were each regularly on campus at Columbia.”

  We thought in silence.

  “Mamie Durant, as well,” I said. “We know she has some connection with Fromley. And she is connected with the Wingate family, if not Sarah herself: Stella went directly from Mamie’s employ to that of Mrs. Wingate.”

  “And what about Dean Arnold?” Isabella asked.

  Alistair and I both stared at her. Isabella had spoken with Dean Arnold on Wednesday, but nothing of importance had come out of the interview. Sarah’s work in his office was ordinary, routine.

  “I read your notes after you spoke with Angus MacDonald.” Isabella paused for a split second to gather her thoughts. “He thought Sarah was upset by something relevant to her work at Dean Arnold’s office. Do you recall? And I was struck by his belief that Sarah even mentioned Michael Fromley’s name during their last conversation.”

  She looked at me expectantly, under the impression she had noticed something important. But I didn’t think so.

  “Yes, I remember,” I said, “but think of it logically. For her to have mentioned Fromley’s name, especially in the context of her work, makes no sense.” I spread my hands wide. “When Alistair and I discussed the matter, we decided that MacDonald must have been mistaken. The man was thoroughly grief-stricken, you see. How can we consider him a reliable source on this point?”

  Isabella was clearly unconvinced and she began shuffling through the files with a peculiar expression. What
could she be looking for with such urgency?

  Alistair did not seem to notice her behavior, for he had moved on to his own concerns. “Well, that all sounds very reasonable. But I believe we might use what we know about criminal behavior to narrow down where and how we search for your unknown killer.”

  I cut him off sharply. “We don’t have time for esoteric theories, Alistair—”

  He responded quickly, before I could interrupt again. “I offer you a practical theory, of the exact sort you already use. During one of our earliest conversations, you told me you didn’t think a woman could have murdered Sarah because, quite simply, her murder was too brutal. The typical woman doesn’t commit that sort of crime, you said; she would prefer poison to the knife.” He became animated, in his element once again. “I can help you refine that kind of theory in a way that may help you.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Then tell me, in practical terms.”

  Alistair spread out several more sheets of paper and began making a list of traits, though he spoke faster than his hand could keep up. “You tell me you believe the murderer is a copycat killer. That, I tell you, means he is also highly intelligent and organized. Can you guess why?”

  “Absolutely.” I immediately understood where Alistair was headed. “A killer who aims to copy another’s type of crime must be smart enough to learn another criminal’s habits as well as organized enough to carry them out. In our case, he carried out his plan so well we were completely fooled.”

  “Intelligent. Organized.” Alistair mulled these traits. “Our killer commits the crime believing he is capable of deceiving and frustrating the authorities, right?” After I nodded in agreement, he added, “This belief grows, the more time that passes without the killer being caught. Or questioned. Or even suspected.”

  Alistair began pacing the room, his energy too irrepressible to permit him to stay in one place. “Moreover, I believe Sarah’s killer is motivated chiefly by control. We see it demonstrated throughout the crime scene. He first, chiefly, needed to control the victim. We can now make sense of the chloroform that was in Sarah’s system—remember how our first instinct was that its presence was an anomaly? We can now explain it. Whereas Fromley would have relished the torture of a victim who remained alive until the very end, and the thrill of seeing her blood,” Alistair explained, “our real killer required perfect control. He subdued her with chloroform. Once she was unconscious, he took her life quickly, with one stroke of his knife. And then—only then—did he begin to frame the crime scene as Fromley would have done.”

  I picked up where he left off, adding my own conclusion. “It also shows the killer did not murder in the manner he did because he enjoyed the brutal attack or the display of blood. He simply needed the murder scene to fit the Fromley prototype.” I paused to look at Alistair. “The positive side of this, I suppose, is that we have less cause to worry the real murderer will kill again.”

  “It’s true that he has killed for a different reason,” Alistair said, thinking aloud, “but what troubles me is that he has involved himself so closely in our investigation. He monitors us—and that implies he has concerns that are unsettled. Killing Sarah may not have resolved his problems in the way that he hoped.”

  “Or possibly our investigation is creating new ones,” I said, adding, “I’m sure he counted on our not discovering Fromley’s body for some time.”

  “The real killer is unlikely to know we found Fromley’s body,” Alistair said thoughtfully. “That may give us some time. I am concerned he may react poorly when he discovers his best laid plans to frame Fromley have not worked.”

  Alistair and Isabella both looked uneasy. “React poorly, how?” I asked. I felt as though they had noticed something I had not.

  “You’re going to say this is like the Sid Jones case, aren’t you, Alistair?” Isabella looked worried.

  “Well, similar,” he acknowledged. “Especially in this one last point.” Alistair’s voice was suddenly cautious. “A person for whom this degree of control is paramount sometimes also manifests that control by keeping close tabs on the investigation. That was the case in the Jones matter Isabella just mentioned. Jones had murdered someone, and he posed as a news photographer covering the case—simply so he could stay abreast of the investigation. And the closer the authorities came to discovering him, the more he panicked, and the more violent he became. So we must be alert to anyone who takes . . . well, what we might characterize as an undue interest in our work.”

  Now I was confused. “But we’ve had no real news coverage of the case until yesterday. You suspect one of the reporters who approached you?”

  “No,” Alistair said, and his disappointed frown made it clear I had missed his point. “I mentioned the Sid Jones case only as an example. Control and interest can take many forms. In one case, the killer pretended to be a police officer—and proceeded to interview every witness in the case. But in our case, the killer’s interest is evidenced in the attack he orchestrated against you as well as the package he sent to Isabella. The real killer meant not only to mislead us, but also to taunt us and revel in his ability to frustrate us.”

  Alistair paused, and something about the way he was obviously holding something back caused a chill to run down my spine and I involuntarily shuddered. “So how does your point about the killer’s possible interest in our investigation help us to find him?”

  Alistair’s answer did not reassure me. “You are too pragmatic, Ziele,” he said. He smiled at first, but then his tone became ominously sober. “I mention this last point not because I believe it may further our investigation. I mention it to warn you, both of you”—here he looked sternly at Isabella—“to be extremely careful. It is likely—in fact, it is almost certain—that our actions are being monitored. And it may be by someone closer to our investigation than we might imagine.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “You’re a tough man to track down these days.” My old partner Mulvaney had managed to locate me at Alistair’s apartment late Saturday morning, after telephoning several other places without success. “Joe says this investigation practically has you living in the city again.”

  It was true. All leads pointed here, and Joe was managing everything in Dobson from his sickbed. Not that there was much to manage in Dobson. No substantive leads had materialized there, and both the mayor and the public were less worried by the murder. The victim, after all, had been a visitor—not quite one of their own.

  This morning, Mulvaney had run across two additional leads to pass along. First, Otto Schmidt, the vagrant who had robbed Sarah Wingate, had been found begging for change outside an East Side saloon, too drunk to be coherent. The police would hold him until he sobered up and could be questioned. Mulvaney’s other news held even more promise: some items, potentially linked to the Wingate murder, had been found overnight in the trash at Grand Central Station. A janitor there had discovered a carpetbag containing a bloodstained lead pipe bundled with some clothing—a fur hat, shirt, trousers, and a woman’s petticoat and handbag. Mulvaney’s memory was sharp, for he had recalled the details I had shared about the man seen in the woods the day of Sarah’s murder. But what specifically tied the bloodstained clothing to my case was the ticket stub found in the trouser pocket, dated for November 7, a return from Dobson, New York.

  “How do we know this clothing is associated with Sarah Wingate’s killer?” Alistair asked.

  “We don’t,” I said. “But what are the odds that, on the same day Sarah was killed, someone other than her killer traveled on a return ticket from Dobson to Grand Central Station, depositing a bloodstained weapon and bloody clothing in the garbage? It’s possible. But circumstances would seem to suggest a connection.”

  “Just as circumstantial evidence suggested Fromley was the killer,” Alistair said wryly.

  “That’s right,” I said. “Circumstantial evidence is not foolproof—but sometimes it’s all we have, and when we can weave it into a seamless chain of event
s, it can be persuasive.”

  “Where were the items found?” Alistair asked, as we hustled down to his lobby and waited for the doorman to hail us a cab. Isabella trailed behind us, fiddling with an oversized umbrella she would not need. While the day continued to be gray and dismal, the morning’s heavy rain had stopped.

  “A janitor found them in the garbage at the north construction site down at the depot,” I said, then corrected myself. “I mean the station.” The old Grand Central Depot had been renamed recently, and like most people, I hadn’t yet grown used to its new name. It had been under renovation for years now. First, the building had risen three stories higher and gotten a new façade. Now construction was under way for an even more ambitious expansion, with literally hundreds of buildings just north of Forty-second Street being demolished for a new Park Avenue underground approach. It was in the midst of that chaos where we soon found ourselves.

  “It’s huge,” Isabella said, “much larger than I would have imagined from the newspapers.”

  “And filthy,” Alistair said, brushing soot off the shoulder of his fine woolen coat.

  They were right. The sight before us blended nature and industry in a way that was uncanny: The maze of railroad tracks, trains, and construction equipment was barely visible through what appeared to be a dense fog, but was actually a mix of smoke and soot. I saw both Alistair and Isabella had covered their mouths with scarves, so as to protect themselves from the foul air. I had no real difficulty breathing, but the noisy din was another matter entirely; I suspected that the clanging of metal rails as workers welded them together would ring in my ears for hours after we had left the rail yard.

  A tall figure walked toward us out of the dust. “Are you Ziele?”