Crime School

by Carol O'Connell

  “Mrs. White?” The detective held up her badge and ID.

  The woman’s smile collapsed. “It’s about Natalie, isn’t it? I wondered when you’d come.”

  The civilian police aide for the midtown precinct was a short, thin woman with brown hair and a dim view of blondes. Eve Forelli held up her favorite tabloid with the headline: ACTRESS STABBED IN BROAD DAYLIGHT. She glared at the tall, pretty woman seated on the other side of her desk. “You look better in person.”

  And this, of course, was sarcasm, for the grainy newsprint photograph only showed the back of the actress’s head; the face was pressed to the bosom of another actor, a man holding the unconscious, bleeding victim in his arms while he postured and smiled for the camera.

  The blonde’s blue eyes opened wide. “How could it be in the paper? It just happened this morning.”

  Forelli pointed to the line below the newspaper’s banner. “It’s the late edition.” She could see that the younger woman was not following this. “It’s a second edition.” And it had been free, a promotional gimmick for a failing newspaper. “Now I need the correct spelling for your last name. The hospital only used one L. It doesn’t look right.” She handed the newspaper to the blonde. “And this story didn’t even mention your name.”

  The startled actress tore her eyes away from the clock on the wall to scan the article. “Oh, damn, you’re right.”

  “The spelling, Miss Small?”

  “Just the way it sounds. Call me Stella.” The woman flashed a smile. “Look—is this going to take much longer? I’ve been waiting for over an hour. I’m already late for another appointment in SoHo.”

  Eve Forelli only glared at the woman. This—blonde had left the hospital before giving a statement to the police. One of the little princes from Special Crimes Unit downtown had reamed out a desk sergeant and demanded the missing paperwork on the reported stabbing. Her supervisor, in turn, had crawled up Forelli’s own scrawny tail. Further down the food chain, the frazzled police aide had screamed at the hospital staff. And, finally, the errant actress had been identified. And now Forelli prepared to marry an illegible attending physician’s report to the crime victim’s account. “So you were stabbed by—”

  “Oh, Jesus, no!” said the actress. “I don’t want any trouble with the cops. Look, I’m sorry, officer, but this—”

  “I’m not a cop.” Forelli pointed to the name tag pinned to her blouse, clearly identifying her as a civilian aide. “You see a badge here? No, you don’t. I just do the damn paperwork.”

  “Sorry.” Stella Small touched her bandaged arm. “A camera did this. No big deal.”

  Eve Forelli’s face was deadpan. “A guy stabbed you—with his camera.” Of course. And this added credence to her pet theory that the roots of blond hair attacked brain cells.

  “No.” The actress waved the newspaper. “The reporter got it wrong. I wasn’t stabbed—I was slashed.”

  “With a camera.”

  “But it was an accident.” The blonde slumped down in the chair. Her blue eyes rolled back, and then she sighed—a clear sign of guilty defeat. “Okay, this is what happened. My agent thought getting slashed with a razor was better than a guy just bumping into me on a crowded sidewalk.”

  “Yeah, that would’ve been my choice.”

  “I didn’t know the doctor was going to file a police report.”

  “Ah, doctors.” Forelli sighed. “They fill out these reports for every shooting, stabbing, and slashing. Who knows why? It’s a mystery.”

  “You’re not going to get me in trouble, are you?”

  “Naw, what the hell.” Forelli was overworked, very tired and feeling giddy. Inside the appropriate box of her form, she typed the words, Professional bimbo collides with camera. Damn every tall blonde ever born.

  Her supervisor would not like this entry, assuming the lazy bastard ever bothered to read it—fat chance. All her best lines were lost on that illiterate fool. And now she would have to phone in the details to a detective from Special Crimes, another brain trust who had problems with the written word.

  “But no more false police reports, okay? You can go to jail for that.” Forelli was not certain that this was true, but it did have a frightening effect on the blonde.

  After the actress had departed, the police aide opened a window and leaned outside to smoke a cigarette. She looked down to see Stella Small standing on the sidewalk below, looking left and right, lost in yet another blond conundrum—which way to go?

  Forelli, for lack of any better spectacle, watched as the young woman removed a wadded-up blouse from her purse, then tossed it into a trash basket near the curb.

  Before the clerk had finished her smoke, an older woman came along. This one, with ragged clothes and matted hair, fished the blouse out of the wire basket and briefly inspected it. Though the material was stained with a large X on the back, the homeless woman stripped off her shirt—right in front of a police station—no bra—and put the trash-can find on her back.

  Mallory listened politely as Mrs. Alice White gave her a walking tour of the residence, rambling on about the problems of renovation. “The place was a rabbit warren, all broken up in small spaces. Now there’s only a few apartments left at the top of the house.” The rest of the floors had been restored to the former proportions and appointments of a family home.

  “Where did the murder happen?”

  “If I recall the old floor plan—” Alice White pulled open two massive wooden doors and stepped into a formal dining room. “It was probably in here.”

  Another doorway gave Mallory a view of the adjoining sit-down kitchen. Always go to the kitchen. This lesson was handed down from Louis Markowitz. Interview subjects were less guarded in that more casual room, for only friends and family gathered there.

  Mrs. White’s voice was jittery and halting. Police had that nervous effect on civilians, but Mallory suspected another reason.

  Planning to hold out on me, Alice?

  The woman paused by a large oak table surrounded by eight carved chairs. “Yes, I’m sure of it now. This was where Natalie’s apartment used to be. And it was no bigger than this room.”

  Though the new owner had been a child when the victim had died, it was obvious that they had known each other. Whenever the conversation turned back to murder, the hanged woman was always Natalie to Mrs. White.

  Mallory was done with the pleasantries, the getting-to-know-you courtship. She decided upon a style of blud-geoning that would leave only psychic bruises and fingerprints. She raised her face to stare at the chandelier above the table, perhaps the same spot where Natalie Homer had hung for two days in August. “You can almost see it, can’t you?”

  Gentle Alice White was forced to see it now; the woman’s gaze was riveted to the ceiling fixture, and her mind’s eye showed her a dead body twisting on a rope, rotting in the summer heat. And from now on, she would find Natalie hanging there each time she passed through her dining room.

  The detective slowly turned on the freshly wounded civilian.

  Can you hear the flies, Alice?

  As if this thought had been spoken aloud, the startled woman’s hand drifted up to cover her open mouth.

  “Mrs. White? Could I trouble you for a cup of coffee?” Caffeine was the best truth drug.

  “What? Oh, of course. I’ve got a fresh pot on the stove.” Alice White could hardly wait to leave this room, this ghost, for the safety of the next room, and the detective followed her.

  Mallory sat down at the kitchen table and unfolded a packet of papers, spreading them on a flower-print cloth. “I understand you bought this building five years ago.”

  “No, that’s wrong.” Mrs. White poured coffee into a carafe. “I didn’t buy it.” Next, she opened a cupboard of fine china cups and dishes, and this was a bad sign; she was putting out her Sunday best for company.

  “I like coffee mugs, myself,” said Mallory.

  “Oh, so do I.” The woman smiled as she pulled two
ceramic mugs from hooks on the wall, then set them on the table.

  “Maybe it’s a clerical error.” Mallory held up a photocopy of the ownership transfer. “This says you purchased the building from the estate of Anna Sorenson.”

  Alice White, carafe in hand, hovered over the paper and read the pertinent line. “No, that’s definitely a mistake.” She poured their coffee, then sat down across the table. “I didn’t buy the house. Anna Sorenson was my grandmother. She willed it to me.”

  “And you visited your grandmother—when you were a little girl.” Ten seconds crawled by, yet Mallory did nothing to prompt the woman. She sipped her coffee and waited out the silence.

  “Yes.” Alice White said this as a confession. “I was here that summer.”

  Their eyes met.

  “The summer Natalie died.” Her hands wormed around a sugar bowl, and she pushed it toward Mallory. “The coffee’s too strong, isn’t it? Norwegians make it like soup.” She reached for a carton of cream. “Would you like some—”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  And now it begins, Alice.

  “So, the last time you saw Natalie Homer—”

  “I was twelve.” Mrs. White made a small production of pouring the cream carton into a pitcher, buying time to hunt for the right words. “She was so pretty—like a movie star. That’s what my grandmother said. Natalie gave me her old lipsticks and a pair of high heels.”

  “So you spent some time with her. Did she talk about herself?”

  “No—not much.” Alice White was so rattled, she stirred her coffee, though she had added neither cream nor sugar. “I know her people were from the old country, but not Natalie. My grandmother said her Norwegian wasn’t good.” The woman forced a bright smile. “I don’t speak a word myself. My parents only used it when they didn’t want me to know what they were saying. So when Natalie spoke Norwegian to Gram, I knew I was missing all the good stuff.”

  Mallory shuffled her papers, then handed the woman another document. “This is a copy of Natalie’s marriage certificate. Her maiden name was an odd one, Qualen. That’s Norwegian?”

  “Never heard of it.” Alice White stared at the certificate. “Maybe it’s a corruption. A lot of foreign names were changed at Ellis Island. I bet the original spelling was Kv instead of Qu. But that still wouldn’t make it a common name.”

  “Good,” said Mallory. “That’ll make it easier to trace her family. It would help if I knew what state they live in. The only next-of-kin we have is a sister in Brooklyn. And she hates cops.”

  “So did my grandmother. She said they were all thieves. They were always ticketing the building for fake violations. Then Gram would give them some cash and—” She gave Mallory a weak sorry smile, suddenly remembering that her guest was also police. “But that was a long time ago. I’ve never had any problems like—”

  “Can you remember anything that would tie Natalie to relatives out of state?”

  “I think she came from Racine, Wisconsin. My parents live there, and Gram asked Natalie if she knew them.”

  Mallory reached for a folded newspaper at the edge of the table. It was days old. She opened it to the front-page picture of Sparrow being loaded into an ambulance. “Can we talk about this now?”

  Alice White’s eyes were begging, Please don’t.

  “You knew the police would come.” Mallory pushed the newspaper across the table. “This hanging was a lot like Natalie’s—the hair cut off and packed in her mouth. When you read the paper, you recognized the details. That’s why you were expecting me. I know you saw Natalie’s body. We have a statement from the police officer who saw you in the hall with another kid, a little boy. How old was he?”

  “Six or seven.” Alice White was mistaking Mallory’s guesswork for absolute certainty. She showed no surprise, only the resignation of a true believer in police omniscience.

  “The two of you saw everything,” said Mallory, “before Officer Parris chased you away.”

  The woman nodded. “Officer Sticky Fingers. That’s what Gram called him. Or maybe that was the other one.” She looked up. “Sorry—the cops in uniforms—”

  “They all look alike. I know. So you saw everything, the hair, and the—”

  “I can still see it.”

  “Who was the little boy? Your brother?”

  “No, I never knew his name. Gram found him wandering in the hall. She took him inside and went through all the stuff in his little suitcase. I remember she found a phone number, but there was nobody home when she called.”

  “Why didn’t she turn him over to the cops?”

  “She’d never—” Mrs. White shrugged. “Like I said, Gram hated the police. She’d never trust them with a child, not that one. You see, there was something wrong with the boy. He couldn’t talk, or he wouldn’t. Well, my grandmother figured somebody must be expecting him for a visit—because of the little suitcase. When she opened it up, everything was still neatly packed. He smelled bad—I think he’d messed in his pants. Gram gave him a bath and changed his clothes. Then she went from door to door, all over the building, the whole neighborhood.”

  “So you were alone with the boy when the cops showed up.”

  “Yes. My grandmother was the one who called the police, but it took them forever to get here. This awful smell was coming from next door. Gram was just frantic. She had a key to Natalie’s place, but it didn’t work. A few hours after Gram left, I heard the cops out in the hall. One of them yelled, ‘Oh, God, no!’”

  “And you were curious.”

  “You bet. More police showed up, men in suits. One of the men in uniform was guarding the apartment and shooing people away. I waited till he walked down the hall to talk to a neighbor. Then I went to Natalie’s door. It was wide open.”

  “And the boy was with you.”

  “I was holding his hand. Gram told me not to leave him alone. Well, I saw the body hanging there—but it didn’t look like Natalie. Her eyes and that beautiful long hair—it was just—” Alice White took a deep breath. “And the roaches—they were crawling down the rope to get at her. The men just left her hanging there while they took their pictures. Then another policeman chased us off.”

  “What happened to the little boy?”

  “That night, a man came to take him away.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No, I was in bed. I only heard the voices in the other room. I think Gram knew him. Or maybe she tried that telephone number again, the one she found in the suitcase. Yes, she must’ve talked to him on the phone. He didn’t have to say who he was when he came to the door.”

  “Did you tell your grandmother what you and the boy—”

  “God, no. Gram would’ve been so angry. She told me to take care of that boy—not give him nightmares for the rest of his life.”

  Charles Butler was no stranger to Brooklyn. He frequently made the trek to this outer borough for a poker game with friends. However, like any good New Yorker, he only knew his habitual routes. Before Riker had allowed his driver’s license to lapse, every other road had been a mystery, even this broad avenue along Prospect Park.

  He waited in his car as the detective crossed the street and joined two uniformed policemen standing by a squad car. They were too far away for Charles to hear any conversation, and so he eavesdropped on their body language.

  One of the officers shrugged to say, Sorry. Riker’s hands rose in exasperation, and he must have uttered at least one obscenity, for now the officer’s hands went to his hips to say, Hey, it’s not our fault. Behind dark glasses, the slouching detective stared at one man and then the other, giving them no clue to his thoughts. Suddenly both officers were talking with upturned hands, offering new forms of Sorry, probably accompanied by a mollifying Sir. In an economy of motion, Riker waved one hand to say, Awe, the hell with it, then turned his back, dismissing them both. He was one very unhappy man when he slid into the front seat of the Mercedes.

  “Not good news, I take
it.” Charles started the engine.

  “Natalie’s sister left town in a big hurry.” Riker nodded toward the men in uniform. “And those two clowns just stood there and watched her drive away—with a suitcase.” His head lolled back on the soft leather upholstery. “They keep changing the rules on me, Charles. Apparently, if you can say the word lawyer three times without interruption, the cops have to let you go. My fault. I used the word detain instead of arrest.”

  “Bad luck. Sorry.” The Mercedes pulled away from the curb.

  “Yeah. And I was really looking forward to scaring the shit out of that woman.” Riker fell into a black silence until the great arches of the Brooklyn Bridge loomed up on the road before them.

  Charles sensed there was more to the detective’s dark mood than a lost witness. How else to account for this sadness? When the car stopped in traffic, he turned to the man beside him. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah, there is.” The detective stirred, then sat up a bit straighter. “I’ve been thinking about the Wichita Kid and that wolf bite.”

  This was highly unlikely, but now Charles understood that the real problem was none of his business. “You want to know how—”

  “Naw, here’s my best guess. I figure there’s a one in a million chance the Wichita Kid could survive rabies without a vaccine.”

  “That’s actually true, but I don’t think Jake Swain was aware of it when he wrote the book.” As they crossed the bridge, Charles launched into the story of Sheriff Peety’s travels from town to town, hunting an outlaw infected with rabies. “So he’s chatting up all the local doctors along the way when he meets one who’s heard the story of the rabid wolf that bit—”

  “Hold it,” said Riker. “Don’t tell me. The sheriff finds out that the wolf never had rabies in the first place. Am I right?”

  “Right you are. He discovers that someone else was bitten by that same wolf and survived. The animal actually had distemper. Looks the same as rabies, lots of frothing at the mouth, but it’s not transmissible to humans. However, the wound wasn’t cleaned properly, so Wichita suffered a massive infection—fevers, hallucinations, but no symptoms of hydrophobia.”