Death Benefits

by Michael A. Kahn

  “The FBI?” he whined, sliding his hands further down the front of his pants.

  “At least the FBI,” I told him. “Probably the police. U.S. Customs, too. Maybe others. There are lots of law enforcement agencies involved. Everyone is looking for it. You’re about to hit the big time, Albert.”

  His face was flushed. He pulled one of his hands out of his pants and tugged at his thin mustache.

  I studied him, watching as the scope of his predicament sunk in. “Tell me about it,” I said softly.

  After a long moment, he sighed. “I should have just said no.”

  I uttered a silent thanks heavenward. “No to what, Albert?” I asked gently.

  “To Stoddard. When he called. I should have just said no.”

  “When did he call?”

  Albert had the date and time of the call committed to memory. The date and time meant that Anderson had contacted Albert the morning after he picked up the lockbox from Sal Donalli, which meant that Anderson met Albert the morning of the day after he disappeared.

  “Stoddard caught me off guard. I mean, he sounded—well, desperate on the telephone. In fact, that is precisely what he said he was. He actually said he was desperate. He said that to me over the telephone. That just was not like him at all. I had never heard him talk like that.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to meet him. He said it was an emergency. He said he needed my help. But then he said that I had to swear that I would keep it a secret. I was so—so startled that I told him I would. He made me swear. I did. I swore that I would keep it a secret.” He jammed his fingers back into the front of his pants. “Of course, I had no idea at the time of what he was…that he was going to, you know…do that thing.”

  “What thing?”

  Albert shuddered. “Kill himself.”

  “What happened after Stoddard called you that morning?”

  “He told me to meet him. At a deserted warehouse on the south side. That morning. He gave me directions.”

  “Did you go?”

  Albert nodded.

  “He met you there?”

  Another nod.

  “Tell me about the meeting.”

  “He was very…agitated, Miss Gold. He had not shaved. His clothes were wrinkled. His breath smelled of alcohol. I distinctly remember that. Mind you, this was ten in the morning.”

  “Did he have anything with him?”

  He shook his head. “He said it was in the trunk.”

  “What was?”

  “Whatever it was he wanted me to help him hide,” Albert said, his tone now peevish, almost shrill. “He never told me what it was. Never.”

  “What did he tell you, Albert?” I asked, trying to keep my voice soothing.

  “He…he did tell me it was very valuable. And…and from the way he talked about it…it—that thing—did not sound like it was a large object.”

  “What did he say that made you think it wasn’t large?”

  Albert Weidemeir looked down as he talked, staring at his shoes. He took a couple slow, deep breaths. “I don’t recall specifics, Miss Gold. I just got the feeling that whatever it was, it was something small—something a person could carry.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stoddard said that it was imperative that he hide that thing in a safe place. He said it would have to remain hidden for a lengthy period of time. Perhaps years. Somewhere safe and secure. He asked me if I knew of a good place to hide it in the sewer system.”

  “And you suggested the River Des Peres?”

  Albert’s head snapped up and he stared at me, slack-jawed. “He told you?”

  “Sort of. What part of the River Des Peres?”

  “You have to understand, Miss Gold, this was all against my better judgment. All of it. I am hardly the type of man to get involved in this sort of thing.” He was jittery, his arms jumping at odd angles as he spoke. “If I had any inkling that there were criminal overtones—well, I can assure you.” He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, shaking his head. “I work in the accounting department at the Sewer District,” he whined, as if that were explanation enough.

  “What part of the River Des Peres?” I repeated.

  “Section D,” he answered, head down.

  “What’s that?”

  “Section D is the double-arch section that runs under Forest Park.”

  “Is that where he hid it?”

  Albert shrugged and shook his head at the same time, palms up. “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “Section D wasn’t my only suggestion. I told him about several other locations in the sewer system.”

  “Such as what?”

  “I told him about two brick feeder lines that might be better for hiding something in.”

  “What made them better?”

  “You could chisel out a few bricks instead of having to cut out a hole in cement. He listened to what I said, but in the end he hid it himself. He didn’t want me to know where it was hidden. He told me he didn’t want anyone to know besides himself. That way no one could be threatened. Or compromised. At least that is what he told me. But now look what’s happened to me. He’s barely dead a month and I am practically on the FBI’s most-wanted list. I should never have gotten involved with this. Never. Nevernevernever.”

  “So you don’t know where it is?”

  He shook his head. “I surely do not. You must tell that to the police. And the FBI. Please make them understand, Miss Gold. I don’t know where he hid that darn thing, and I never ever ever want to know. I am an accountant, for heaven’s sake.”

  “He hid it himself?”

  “Yes. Yes. Yes. That is what I am trying to make you understand.”

  “How did he know where to go?”

  Albert made a helpless, distressed gesture with his hands. “He asked me for blueprints. For several parts of the sewer system. He also asked me for some tools and supplies to help him hide it. He was quite despondent, Miss Gold. I was afraid he was going to have a nervous breakdown. He had always been a good lawyer and friend.” Albert shrugged helplessly. “I agreed to help him.”

  “You were a good friend to him, Albert. You did the right thing.”

  “That’s what I thought. He was a very important lawyer, Miss Gold. A very important man here in St. Louis. He knew the president of the United States. And yet, when he was in trouble, he turned to me. I—I was—honored.” He reddened. “Stoddard waited there at the warehouse for me. I went back to the headquarters, got the tools and supplies, and then I drove back there.”

  “What did you bring him besides the blueprints?”

  “I brought him a hammer, a chisel, a shovel. I brought him a small bag of concrete. I brought the bucket to mix the concrete in. I brought him a big flashlight, too.”

  A dad and three small boys came charging into Dinosaur Park. The boys ran around to the back of the triceratops and started climbing up its tail.

  I gestured to Albert, and he followed me through the trees and down toward the pond.

  “What happened after you gave him all that stuff?” I asked.

  “He left. First he thanked me, and then he left.”

  “That’s it?”

  He nodded.

  We had reached the edge of the pond.

  “Did you talk to him again?”

  Albert didn’t answer. He watched as a pair of swans glided past.

  “Did you talk to him again?”

  He glanced over at me. “How can I be sure you are really who you say you are? How do I know you are really her lawyer?”

  “Here,” I said, reaching into my purse for the photocopy of my retention letter. It was getting dog-eared from being shown to people.

  He read it once, and then he read it again. He h
anded it back to me.

  “He called me the next day,” Albert said. “After dinner. I could not believe it. I mean, he had told me the day before that he would never ask me to do anything else for him. He had promised.” Albert shook his head in outrage. “Well, I finally agreed to meet him back at that warehouse.”

  “And?”

  “He looked terrible. Haggard. His shirt torn. His pants smeared with dirt or mud. He still had not shaved. I should have known then.”

  “What happened at the meeting?”

  “It did not last long. He gave me a large envelope. It was sealed with tape. He told me that the plan had changed slightly.”

  “What plan?”

  “I have no idea,” he whimpered. “I never knew of any plan. You must tell that to the FBI, Miss Gold.”

  “What was in the envelope?”

  “I have no idea. None whatsoever.”

  “What happened at this second meeting, Albert?”

  “He made me promise to put that envelope in my safe deposit box. He gave me very specific instructions. He told me I should wait for exactly one year. Then I should call his law firm to find out who is representing his wife. Then I should contact that lawyer and give him the envelope. When I give him the envelope, I am supposed to tell him that it describes an extraordinarily valuable asset of the estate. Except, when Stoddard told me that, I thought he said ‘state.’ An extraordinarily valuable asset of the state. I—I didn’t know he was talking about his own estate. I didn’t know he—he was going to commit suicide.”

  “What else happened?”

  “That was it. He gave me the envelope. He gave me the instructions. He made me recite them. Then he made me swear that I would follow them. And then he left.”

  “Did you hear from him again?”

  “No. Never. The next thing I heard, he was missing. And then, well, then he was dead.”

  “Did you do what he told you to do?”

  Albert nodded. “The very next morning. I went directly from home to my bank. I put the envelope in my safe deposit box.”

  “Is it still there?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm.

  “Yes.”

  I felt like doing one of those crazy touchdown dances football players do in the end zone. But I remained motionless, forcing myself to consider the best approach to landing this fish. Ironically, Albert Weidemeir also happened to be the best witness of Stoddard Anderson’s mental state just prior to his suicide. And he was clearly spooked by the thought of having to deal with the FBI.

  “I must tell you, Miss Gold, I was quite anxious about that envelope, even before Stoddard was dead. But then, after his suicide, well…” He paused to shake his head. “Even though I feel a certain obligation toward his wishes, I am most uncomfortable about having continuing custody and control over that envelope.”

  I waited a few beats and then said, “I’d like to help you, Albert.”

  He glanced at me. “You would?” He sounded hopeful.

  “I can shield you from the criminal authorities. I’m willing to do that. But I’m going to need something from you in return.”

  “Money?”

  “No. Mrs. Anderson is my client. She’ll pay my fees. What I need from you is a written statement of your observations of Stoddard Anderson’s mental condition during the last time you saw him. The way he looked, the way he acted, even the way he smelled. I need it for the life insurance matter. The matter described in the letter I showed you. I can promise you that I will show that statement to no one but the insurance company. Okay?”

  “I suppose I could do that for you.”

  “And,” I continued, watching closely for his reaction, “I won’t tell anyone that you gave me the envelope.”

  He gave a sigh of relief. “Then you will take it?”

  In my mind, I leaned back, punched my fist into the sky, and shouted a YES!! that reverberated across the city. With my body, though, I pretended to carefully weigh his request.

  “I will,” I finally said. “Since I represent his widow, Albert, you’ll always know that you kept your promise to him. You were a good friend to the end.”

  “This is excellent. I must tell you, Miss Gold, you cannot imagine how relieved I will be to finally get that dreadful envelope out of my safe deposit box.”

  We made arrangements to meet outside his bank at twelve-thirty the following afternoon. I really wanted to do it first thing in the morning, but Albert couldn’t get to the bank any earlier than lunchtime because of the Monday morning staff meetings he had to attend on his first day back at the office after his vacation.

  As we were parting, I asked, “One more thing, Albert. This Section D—the tunnel under Forest Park. You say Mr. Anderson seemed more interested in that than the other places you told him about?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean he hid it in Section D. As I told you, I do not know where he hid it. I cannot impress upon you enough—”

  “How did Stoddard know how to get into Section D?”

  Albert looked down at his feet. “I told him how. The river comes out of those tunnels over at Macklind and Manchester. The mouths of the tunnels are wide open. No fences or gates or anything like that. Anyone can walk in. I told him about that entrance.”

  “How long are the tunnels?”

  “From Macklind through Forest Park, I would say about three miles.”

  ***

  As Albert Weidemeir walked briskly away toward the parking lot, his arms pumping and his hips rolling, Benny casually passed by him as he walked toward me, tipping his Yankees cap at him. It only made Albert speed up his pace.

  “Nu?” Benny asked me.

  I gave him a thumbs-up. “Albert’s our man. And he’s going to cooperate.”

  “No shit. Good old Albert. Tell me about it. And do it in the shade, for Christ’s sake. Look at me. I’m shvitzing like a hog. Summer in this goddamn town is like living in a fucking steam bath.”

  We walked back to the Science Center, where I finished filling Benny in while he chugged a large Sprite, refilled the cup with water, and chugged that as well.

  “Way to go, Albert,” Benny said when I finished. “Tell him I want to have his children. For lunch. I’m starved.”

  When we got back out to the parking lot, I told Benny I had to go downtown for the meeting with Reed St. Germain.

  “I still don’t see why you have to be the one,” Benny said.

  “I’m the emcee,” I said. “I set it all up.”

  “Well, you know I’m going to have to be there.”

  “You can’t be.”

  “Hey, I can be. You won’t even know I’m there. I’ll stay out of your way. Give me a research project, stick me in the library. Christ, it’s air-conditioned down there. I’ve got to get someplace in this fucking city where the heat index is under a hundred. The climate control center of my brain has already gone to DEFCON-Two.”

  Eventually, I relented. “I just don’t want a circus down there,” I told him. “Here’s the car keys. Wait for me by the car. I want to call both of them one more time.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Reed St. Germain appeared at the doorway of my small office at ten minutes to three, briefcase in hand. I looked up from my legal pad, as if I had been engrossed in my investigation notes.

  “Come in, Reed.”

  “Let’s make the call from my office,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.”

  “We’re not making the call. Ishmael is. I gave him my direct dial number. I think we better wait for the call here. Have a seat. And close the door.”

  He did both, which put him at an immediate disadvantage. Some wit once said that big-firm lawyers are like wolves: They travel in packs. They share another trait as well: Big-firm lawyers—at least the male ones—are highly territorial, and view their offices a
s their lairs. Reed St. Germain was now in my den.

  He slid around in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. Fortunately, these were Abbott & Windsor guest chairs, selected by an all-male committee of lawyers. As a result, there is no comfortable position in those chairs. That’s the whole point. In addition, the chairs sit a couple inches lower than standard ones, which means that the visitor is always just a tad below the lawyer behind the desk. The people in charge of a law firm’s interior design play the same role as the grounds crew at the ballpark—in dozens of little ways they can tip the odds slightly in favor of the home team.

  “Are you sure he even remembers about this call?” Reed said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s out of town.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I called earlier today. First his office, then his home. His wife said he was out of town until tomorrow.”

  “Why did you call?”

  “Uh, management issues. Certainly of no concern to you. Speaking of which, what’s the story with this investigation?” Having faltered for a fraction of a second, he was now attempting to take charge, but from the wrong side of the desk. “When do you plan to wrap it up so we can get back to business around here?”

  “Soon.”

  “Define soon.”

  “Come on, Reed,” I said with irritation. “I already told you that I’m meeting with the claims adjuster on Tuesday. My goal is to have everything wrapped up by then.”

  “Well, that’s good to hear. What have you decided to tell him?”

  I smiled. “Now it’s my turn, Reed. I don’t think that’s any concern of yours. I represent Mrs. Anderson, not the firm.”

  He gave a snort of disgust, trying to sound gruff. “Last time I looked, we were paying your fees.”

  “Reed, if you have a problem with my interpretation of my ethical obligations to Mrs. Anderson, I suggest you raise that with Ishmael. He’s the one who retained me.”

  “I just might,” he snapped, his face coloring. He checked his watch. “He should have called by now—if he’s going to, that is.”