The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  Little Teri’s body, the cops finally admitted, had been left the same way, but there’d been no photos of it — at least not in the papers. This time the body was in public view — in the unfenced passageway below the front stoop of a brownstone just west of Ninth Avenue, on Forty-ninth. And a Post photographer got a closeup of it.

  Wedged in the victim’s bared teeth, a white card with big black letters read REPENT! The photo also showed that the killer had ripped the victim’s earrings off, tearing the ear lobes. The late Joy’s bloody left ear showed up very plainly in the photo. The caption added that the body was nude.

  The murders were now solidly on page one. Where they stayed.

  Of course the journalists soon had a nickname to go with it. That came out of the press conference Blake put on, late Saturday afternoon. Blake had Sergeant Joe Parker, a seven-year veteran of the Homicide Bureau, join him for it. A reporter had lobbed a question about the modus operandi, and Parker had fired back offhandedly, “Yeah, looks like the strangler was her john.”

  Rozanski, who was there, picked up on it, and within twenty-four hours the crimes had become the “Strangler John Murders,” earning Parker, I later learned, a good reaming-out by Kessler. Kessler’s no slouch when it comes to reaming, as a few ancient battle scars of my own will attest.

  The kettle got another stir the following Tuesday when the whisperer called the Dispatch again. Same message as the week before, with the more specific warning that he was going to strike again that Friday.

  Sure enough, despite the public hysteria, hookers staying home (the Dispatch estimated that the streetwalker population on New York sidewalks was down eighty percent that night, though they didn’t say where they came up with that estimate), extra police patrols and neighborhood watch groups roaming the city, it happened. The third victim was discovered shortly after dawn Saturday morning.

  She was first identified as another prostitute, which was understandable. Not only was her nude body found in the spread-eagle posture, REPENT! card in mouth, but it was in the identical spot under the same stoop where Joy Foxworth’s had been found the previous Saturday. The only difference was, no bloody ears, though they were bare of jewelry.

  When the news broke that this victim was no prostitute but a well-known and successful high fashion model named Laura Penniston, the story went national. Time and Newsweek reporters were all over the place. All the evening news programs and “A Current Affair” did stories on Laura Penniston, who, two or three years back, had been on more magazine covers than Madonna.

  Her face hadn’t been as exposed recently, but that wasn’t due to lack of interest. On the contrary, she’d parlayed her face into her fortune — in the form of her own modeling agency, Penniston Associates, Inc. According to the papers, it had become one of the more successful in the city.

  This Penniston woman had made the transition from studio to executive suite without missing a beat. Never married, she’d dated the rich and the famous right up to the night of her death.

  One hot item was Penniston’s earrings. The cops apparently established from several witnesses that she’d been wearing earrings that evening. And they were missing. Why hadn’t the killer ripped them off her the way he had the first two women? Theories abounded — none of them worth a damn, as far as I was concerned. Not that I could think of a better one.

  But the police were spending more time on the killer’s calling card in the victims’ teeth than they were on the earrings. They seemed to be getting desperate. The following Wednesday they requested — and got — every paper in town to run a blow-up of the card.

  Basically your ordinary business card in appearance and size, it had the single word, REPENT!, professionally printed, standard font type, taking up most of the space. At the bottom, in small print, were the words, “For as many as have sinned without law shall also perish without law.” The words sinned and perish had been underlined in ink, presumably by the killer. The New York Times, naturally, had the exact reference for the quote: Rom. 2:12, whatever that is.

  The Times also ran a short sidebar: an interview with an expert on the New Testament. His theory was that the killer was serving notice on the city’s prostitutes that he was substituting his vengeance for the law’s, since the law refused to act. The expert also said the killer’s usage of the quote violated the “intention of the original author.” It sounded like that violation bothered him more than what the killer had done to the women. I made a mental note to give my in-house New Testament expert a jab about that.

  Anyway, Kessler was telling the papers that the cops were going public with this “vital piece of evidence” in hopes that someone with information about the cards would come forward. Such as the printer who made them, or anyone who might have seen them anywhere else. What Kessler didn’t say, but had to be obvious to any cop or ex-cop, was that this was sheer desperation on his part.

  A vagrant thought struck me, and I went back and reread a couple of the articles. In examining the three bodies, the police had found no signs of a struggle by any of the victims. No blood anywhere (except for those torn ear lobes — and forensics had shown that damage to have been inflicted after death), no skin under the fingernails, no bruised knuckles. Throat damage from the cord used and — except for Penniston — torn ear lobes were the only marks on any of the victims. Whoever he was, the killer was quick. And deadly.

  By now I’d gone through about half the pile of newspapers. I dumped the ones I’d read, and picked up a new stack.

  By the next Friday, November third, it seemed every woman in the city (certainly every prostitute) was staying locked up inside. There were hints that special police patrols were out, and that every female cop under sixty was stationed, all tarted up, somewhere in or around Times Square. It figured not to happen again, at least not that night.

  And it looked at first as if it hadn’t, as the city got through Saturday morning with no corpses turning up. But early Saturday afternoon, the weekend manager of the Hot Corner Motel at Forty-sixth and Tenth Avenue, came across in one of the rooms the spread-eagled body of one Billie Morgan, card in mouth. Another prostitute, same M.O., and again, no signs of resistance by the victim.

  More press conferences, more screaming by politicians and pundits, more promises by Inspector Kessler, a lot more anxiety for the city.

  So tonight, Friday, November tenth, had been shaping up to be the very peak of hysteria, the end of Strangler John Week 4, the night of the prospective fifth strangling. But the cops finally caught a break and nailed the guy — if you wanted to believe that Jerry Fanning was it. I had my doubts.

  And I wasn’t alone. I was back to where I’d started — today’s Dispatch, Chet’s story on the arrest. Make that yesterday’s Dispatch: it was now 4:08 by my Timex. In the A.M.

  Editorials of any kind, I try to avoid. But a box beneath Chet’s story said, “For an editorial on today’s events, see page 27.” To my surprise, I found that whoever wrote it (and it might have been Rozanski himself) shared my doubts about Fanning’s guilt, if not for the same reasons. It ended with this:

  …So let us by all means hope that Inspector Kessler is right and Mr. Fanning is indeed Strangler John, though we will take a good deal more comfort in the Inspector’s assurances when he gets around to telling us the basis for the arrest. But for all Mr. Kessler’s assurances, we cannot in good conscience advise the women of our fair city, particularly not the women of the street, to go out alone tonight. And our guess — certainly our hope — is that the police themselves are not resting easy. Only if the Strangler does not strike again tonight will it be time to breathe a tentative sigh of relief, and look forward to the trial of Mr. Fanning. If he is indeed the monster who has been committing these atrocities, no punishment is too severe. In fact, the citizens of this State should begin to take seriously our position on the usefulness and fairness of the death penalty, and insist that our legislature reinstate it, and our Governor, for once in his life, do the right thing
and sign it into law.

  As I dropped the paper on top of the pile on the floor beside me, I reminded myself to see that Regan didn’t miss that editorial. His position on capital punishment is about as far from the Dispatch’s (and mine) as Ada is from New York.

  My smile at Regan’s probable reaction faded.

  A mental picture of Fanning praying for the murderer’s victims popped into my head. That I’d ever let him into the mansion had been, as Regan had said at the time, highly unusual. I couldn’t help wondering, as I turned out the light and got into bed, whether destiny had played a role.

  5

  Ernie had her own opinions on Fanning’s guilt or innocence, as I learned next morning at breakfast.

  (She’s Sister Ernestine to everyone else in the world, but I get away with the “Ernie” because she’s never figured out a way to make me stop. When I first started calling her that, she used to blush. Now she doesn’t even notice. I’ve seen the Bishop grimace at it, but he knows better than to say anything.)

  I was in the kitchen, wolfing down a superb Denver omelette she’d made me — our usual morning routine. If you forgive her occasional attempts at playing Jewish mama — nagging me about my marital status or the supposed advantages of hooking some nice Jewish girl — Ernie’s okay.

  “Well, David, have they caught the Strangler Jack?”

  “Strangler John,” I corrected. “You see, the word for the customer of a certain kind of, um, lady is John. Since the police suspected this guy of approaching these, uh, particular ladies as a customer, they’re calling him —”

  “Please, David. You don’t have to treat me like some schoolgirl. I know about johns. And prostitutes. Even a nun hears a few things by — my age.” (Ernie doesn’t know I know her age. She’d die if she did.) She leaned over my shoulder and examined the big page-one photo. “But do you really think he could be the murderer? From the picture, he seems such a nice boy!”

  I grinned. “Yeah, that’s probably what those prostitutes thought. I’ll tell you something, Ernie. Lots of nicer-looking boys than him have done just as bad.” I sipped some coffee and reread Rozanski’s story as she cleared away my mess.

  “I still don’t think he did it,” she opined as I left the kitchen. I didn’t answer. What can you say to an illogical female?

  But the Bishop is neither female nor illogical (usually) and his reaction wasn’t much different. I’d left the paper on top of the mail on his desk so the first thing he’d see when he came down at eleven would be Fanning’s befuddled face. I checked my watch when his wheelchair passed my office. The buzzer on my desk sounded exactly twenty-eight seconds later.

  Regan was jabbing at the paper with his reading glasses as I entered.

  “David. What in heaven’s name is this?”

  “My God! Am I honored! A man of your intelligence, and you want me to read you the morning paper? Okay. It says, Police Nab Suspect in Strangler —”

  He wasn’t in the mood. “David! If you please. Your sense of humor this morning is more exiguous than usual. Thrusting that man upon me in the first place was beneath you. Tricking up a Dispatch this way is a singularly tasteless way to prolong it. If you think —”

  “Hold it,” I interrupted. “That’s no fake. You’re looking at two of your favorite people in the world: Jerry Fanning and Charlie Blake.” I wanted to be sure he recognized Blake. After Blake’s one and only visit to the mansion — in the Lombardi affair — Regan gave orders that the welcome mat for the Lieutenant be permanently retired.

  “Can you believe the way that Fanning guy pulled the wool over our eyes? Hell, no wonder he prayed for the murderer: it was him!”

  “Nonsense,” Regan answered. “He’s no murderer, David, certainly not a multiple murderer, and you know it as well as I. He’s an earnest, somewhat misguided young man who, with fortune and God’s grace, may eventually become the devout Christian he desires to be. But a multiple murderer? Arrant nonsense, David.”

  I shrugged. “Hey, the cops don’t arrest people on a whim. He must have done something to give them the idea.”

  He closed his eyes tight for a minute, then gave me a wary look. “Do you really think it possible, David? You were with him the entire time he was in our house. Do you seriously believe he could have strangled four women?”

  I got serious. “Yes, I do. When you’ve been around crime as much as I have, you learn that people do some surprising things. Even Bible-pounders.”

  He scowled at me for a moment, then abruptly pushed his wheelchair away from the desk and began to “pace”.

  I’ve learned to read his state of mind by his movements. When he crosses the office in a set path — say, from west wall to east wall and back — he’s pursuing a definite and logical train of thought. When it’s aimless, he’s just processing a lot of stuff, with no particular plan. At the moment he was just processing.

  I plopped myself down in my chair and waited. After three minutes and thirty-seven seconds (Sure, I timed him. What else was there to do?) he spun his chair to face me.

  “I am on the horns of a dilemma,” he said, frowning. “I made a commitment to Mr. Fanning, do you recall?” I tried to remember, failed, and shook my head.

  “I told him,” the boss explained, “I was in his debt for bringing me that message of God’s love. I told him to call on me if he ever needed help. Well, his current predicament is itself a cry for help. And I am a man of my word.” He put his hands on the wheels and I thought he was off again. But he settled for drumming his fingers.

  “Clearly, I have no stomach for assisting the man who did…that…to those four women. But. If Inspector Kessler is barking up the wrong tree, I have an obligation to render aid. Utilizing your expertise, of course.” He turned his head and studied one of the Van Gogh prints. I glanced at it, but it didn’t seem to have any answers. He turned back to me.

  “Kindly hand me the New York Times, David.” I got up and brought it to him and he studied all the news that the Times saw fit to print about Fanning. I felt like telling him he’d do better reading Rozanski in the Dispatch, but let it alone.

  “There’s nothing here,” he finally grumped, tossing the paper back on his desk.

  I looked at him.

  “I mean, nothing useful. Pointing toward either guilt or innocence. How can we find out what Mr. Kessler has?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, there are ways. If you seriously want to —” I heard a buzz coming from my office: the sound of my private line. If I don’t pick up by the third buzz, Cheryl Grossman will pick up in her office over on Broadway and take the message. So I raised my eyebrows to see if Regan wanted me to stay or take the call. He shrugged and gave a small wave of dismissal. I headed for my office to pick up before the third buzz. Barely made it.

  It was Cheryl herself, so my hurrying had been wasted. “Dave wants to talk with you, Davey. Just a moment.”

  Cheryl’s boss, the “Dave” who wanted to talk with me, was Davis L. Baker, fellow Delancey Street Irregular, my attorney when I need one (more often than I’d prefer) and my landlord/employer — at times. I.e.: he lets me keep my name on his office door and occasionally hires me to do some investigating. Cheryl, his secretary, handles any other work I need done, as and when I need it.

  As you may have gathered, I hold down two jobs. I’m the Bishop’s special assistant, a job I’ve had almost since I left the police force six years ago at approximately the same time Regan took a slug in the spine from a mugger, thus requiring the services of a special assistant. The job pays me a small but regular salary.

  But Regan permits me (often to the disgust of his peers) to work as a private investigator on “my own time”: all but the thirty hours a week he pays me for.

  I insisted on the arrangement from the get-go. Being a glorified private secretary for a Catholic bishop is not my idea of an exciting way to spend my life. Regan didn’t much care for my moonlighting at the time, but had few other options. Word about his temper had gotten ar
ound the archdiocese, and he couldn’t find a priest to do it.

  As it’s turned out, the boss has grown to enjoy the arrangement. He gets to hear about my cases, and sometimes lends a hand. And, with his intelligence, that’s turned out to be to my considerable advantage a couple of times.

  But I digress. I was talking about Davis L. Baker. Dave is a whiz of a criminal lawyer, one of the best in town. He was in his usual hurry.

  “Davey! Have you met a Jerry Fanning? I’m talking about the guy the police just arrested for the Strangler John murders.” I tried not to let my surprise come through and did my lawyer impersonation that always irritates Dave.

  “Can you lay a foundation for your need to know, counselor?”

  “Come on, Davey, I don’t have time for games. I’ve just been appointed to represent the guy. I met him briefly just now, and he says he knows you. Fill me in, will you? How well do you know him?”

  I smiled and shook my head. No sooner does the Bishop ask me how to learn what the cops have on Fanning than we get a call from the guy most likely to know: Fanning’s lawyer.

  A holy life must really get you somewhere.

  6

  “Well, well, well,” I said. “Nice to see the poor guy get a break, getting you appointed his attorney.” I meant it, even if I sounded sarcastic. Baker ignored the compliment.

  “I’m calling to find out what you can tell me about him, Davey. He’s in big trouble, and getting him off isn’t going to be easy.” So I gave him a brief description of that morning visit of two weeks before. He heard me out and blurted a word I’ll omit. “That’s it? What good is that? I thought you’d have something! So he came and tried to convert a bishop and a Jew to Christianity? And naturally struck out. Look, I need something to help get him off!”

  “Tell you what, Dave,” I said. “Tell me everything you know and maybe I’ll lend a hand with my considerable P.I. skills. Right now, all I’ve got is Chet’s article in the Dispatch. Which ain’t much, as you can read for yourself. Well, plus this morning’s New York Times, which is even less. That’s it. Speak to me, my man. I’m a trained investigator. Let me solve it for you.”