I nodded. “I do. How’d they arrest you, Jerry?”
He looked at me. “It was on, uh, Wednesday…” I could barely hear him and gestured at him to hold the instrument closer to his mouth. He did. “It happened Wednesday morning. I guess it was, oh, around ten o’clock. I’d just been to see some old folks — Mr. and Mrs. Kelly.
“I’d accidental left some of my literature at home and was goin’ back to get it when this patrol car passed me on the street. I didn’t see it at first, but they sure saw me. Then one of ’em got out and come at me. I guess I panicked.”
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again he looked at the floor, frowning as he spoke. “See, Davey, I been in trouble with the law before — back in Ada. I was a wild kid. Got arrested a few times before Ida Mae led me to the Lord. Fact, that’s where I was when I met the Lord. In the jail in Ada.”
I studied Fanning’s face while he talked. He seemed sincere.
“That’s when my life changed, Davey, and all for the better. But Wednesday, when I saw that police officer, I just — well, I just panicked.” He was suddenly finding it hard to meet our eyes. “I didn’t know what he might want, I didn’t even stop to think. Just cut and ran.”
I gave him a level stare. “Not too smart, Jerry.”
He finally met my eye and shrugged. “Nope. Stupidest thing I ever did, I reckon. Well, they run me down and jammed my face into a fence.” He shook his head ruefully. “Them old boys up here are about as mean as the ones in Oklahoma. Almost made me feel at home.”
“Then they brought you in?”
“Yep. They wanted to know all about them there cards.”
“Was that what they mainly concentrated on, Jerry? The cards?”
Fanning became more glum. He started mumbling. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. But they sure spent plenty of time on them. Where’d I get them printed? How’d I bring them here? Where’d they been all this time? Who might’ve got aholt of some of ’em? All stuff like that there. But that wasn’t all. I guess day before yesterday it was — what’s today, anyway? I’m having a hard time keeping the days straight.”
“Saturday.”
A look of pain crossed his face. “Saturday?” He shook his head. “Today’s Saturday? I was a-going to surprise Ida Mae tonight. She loves Amy Grant — the Christian rock singer, y’know…? And I was going to talk to Miz Billings about sitting for Joe Bob, and take Ida to the concert. Noticed an ad about it in one of the papers last week.” A tear suddenly glistened in his eye. “I’ve let Ida Mae down so bad.”
Fanning put the phone down and turned away. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. He turned to us, looked at both of us and put the phone back to his mouth.
“Where was I?”
“The cards, Jerry,” Baker said.
Fanning nodded. “Oh, yeah, okay, today is Saturday, huh? So it was, uh, Thursday. They had me in that there interrogation room just about the whole day on Thursday. They got real mad, too.” Jerry grinned. “They were trying to feed me the answers they wanted.” He looked triumphant.
“I got me one advantage on ’em. I been in jail before. Their tricks are the same here, too. So they didn’t fool me none. I just tolt ’em what I knew.”
Baker then asked the key question. “How about alibi, Jerry? The police are convinced that the same guy murdered all four women. Surely you’ve got an alibi for at least one of those Friday nights.”
Jerry shifted uneasily in the chair and studied his shoes. “Yeah, they asked me what I was doing on those Friday nights. I told them I was home.” The last three words were muffled. He tried looking at me and found he couldn’t meet my eyes.
“They asked me, uh, they asked me if I, uh, if I went out at all those nights. I, uh, told them that Ida and me just go to bed early on a weekend night, same as any weeknight. See, I have to get up in the morning before little Joe Bob —”
Fanning’s eyes filled and his voice caught. He stopped, looked at the ceiling for a few seconds, pulled out a dirty handkerchief, blew his nose and resumed, meeting my eye this time.
“’Scuse me. It’s just that thinking about the baby —” His eyes dropped again and he mumbled, “Anyway, I was home ever’ night.”
Fanning took a deep breath waiting for the next question. I glanced sidelong at Baker, but couldn’t read him any better than I can at poker. His face stayed with Jerry as he asked the next question.
“Did they tape the whole interview, Jerry?”
Fanning looked at him and nodded. “Yep. They played it for me later and asked me if I wanted to change anything.” He grimaced. “It was too late by then.”
José, still leaning against the door, caught our eye and tapped his wristwatch significantly. “We’ve got to go, Jerry, Dave said, sticking his notepad back into his briefcase. “Try to stay cheerful, man. Though you seem to be doing fairly well.” He gave the prisoner a curious look. “How do you manage that? This is a pretty depressing place.”
“The Lord put me here,” Jerry answered, his mood brightening. “I think He wants me in here to spread His word among these poor fellows. I never tried telling no prisoners about Jesus before. There’s a lot of old boys in here just yearning to know the Lord, you know. I’ve been trying to —”
Baker raised his hand and interrupted the flow, his eyes boring into the fundie’s. “Look, Jerry. Right now you’ve got to concentrate on getting out. That’s all that matters. Spreading the word is fine but you’ve got other things to worry about. I’d advise you to keep your head down and pay attention to business.”
Jerry nodded glumly, eying the wall behind us.
As we walked down the corridor to the front door, Dave was gloomy. “No way I can put this guy on the stand, Davey. Can you imagine what Fran’d do to him on cross? The courtroom would be knee-deep in Jerry’s blood.”
I winced. “Yeah. I’m beginning to see Kessler’s point. Jerry’s obviously lying about staying home nights. And I don’t like that criminal record, either. On the other hand, how could a liar that lousy fool Regan and me so completely?”
Baker grinned sardonically.
“Don’t answer that,” I added hastily. Pulling on my topcoat, I said, “Want to go see Kessler?”
“Yow go see Kessler,” Baker answered. “I’ve got to get home. I’ll grab a cab.” He slipped on his own overcoat as we headed for the door. “The bond hearing’s Monday at eleven A.M. McKinnick’s courtroom. I’ll file a discovery motion at that time. Come if you want.
I shook my head. “You don’t need me, Dave. Just let me know what happens. And if I can find out anything from Kessler today, I’ll call you. I’m sure he’ll be delighted to find out you and I are working the case.”
Baker raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah, for sure. The only thing that’d make him happier’d be to learn he’s been demoted to patrolman.”
9
Kessler’s reaction over the phone when I told him I was involved in the case confirmed Baker’s assessment.
The inspector and I go way back. He’s the guy that fired me the time — well, one of the times — I let my temper get away from me. Since I opted to go into P.I. work here in New York, events have thrown us together a few times, not always amicably. Fact is, he likes me getting involved in one of his cases as much as Jesse Helms likes hippies.
Hearing his fussy, precise voice on the phone made me feel kind of nostalgic. It had been several months since we’d talked. The conversation was friendly — till he found out why I was calling. The friendliness quotient nosedived when I asked to stop by. When I told him I was working on the Fanning case the expletives started.
“You know, Inspector,” I said in a hurt tone, “you never seem to consider my feelings when you say things like that. I’d think you’d —”
“Stuff it, Davey. And stuff you, by the way. It’s been nearly a year now since you’ve poked your nose into one of my cases —”
“Poked my nose? That’s gratitude for you! If the Bishop and I hadn’t solved th
at Barbara McClain thing, you’d still be looking for her murderer! You ought to be damn happy every time you hear we’re getting involved.”
Several seconds of silence. “Hell, come on over, Davey.” Kessler sounded tired. “The day’s already ruined.”
The Saturday crew at Homicide Headquarters down on Twentieth Street is not your typical all-star line-up. It’ll normally be a mixture of rookies, misfits, has-beens and never-wases. So I wasn’t surprised to see Bill O’Grady manning the front desk.
O’Grady’s a sad case. When I came into Homicide twelve years ago, he was a rising star. He’d cracked the Panzini case and was well liked by Kessler. In fact, he was actually being touted as the next inspector, once Kessler got kicked upstairs.
His fall from favor came about a year before my own, though for a different reason. In Bill’s case, it was women. He’d been sleeping around and hadn’t been careful about it. He was caught having lunch with the wife of one of the lieutenants in the department. What made it even worse was the rumor that he’d been running around with a mistress of some outfit bigwig at the same time.
So his career went straight into the toilet and stayed there. From a snappy, dapper up-and-coming young star he’d become a fat and sloppy has-been who spent all of his off-hours, and too many of his on-, inside a bottle.
Bill’s formerly handsome face, now jowly and booze-reddened, lighted up when he saw me approach the desk. We’d always hit it off, and I’d made a friend for life when I took him out and got both of us drunk the night he learned about his demotion.
“How you doin’, friend?” he said, pushing aside his girlie magazine. “What are you looking for this time? Gonna get another of your fairhaired clients off a murder rap?”
“Aw, come on, man, be fair. I only get ’em off when they’re innocent. You guys just love to build up your big fat reputations by nailing us little guys.”
Bill responded in kind and it soon became apparent he’d be only too happy to kill the rest of the day trading insults. I had to break it off. “Love to jaw with you, Bill, but the big guy wants to see me. He back there?”
O’Grady’s jaw dropped. “You seem’ Kessler? More’n I can say, man. Guess I’d a been better off if he’d a’ fired me, too. Then I’d get to see him once in a while, way you do.”
“Whatta you mean?” I answered with half my brain, while the other half read, upside-down, the personnel sign-in sheet he’d left carelessly on the counter. “I wasn’t fired, I quit of my own free will.” He hooted, but I insisted, “Believe what you want, man, I’m sticking to it that I quit. I’d finally had it with all your damn insults.”
O’Grady offered to buzz Kessler, but I told him I knew the way. We parted with the usual promises to get together soon, both of us knowing it’d never happen.
My plans had made a midcourse correction the moment I saw a certain name on the sign-in sheet. So, leaving O’Grady and entering the main hallway, I headed left for the squad room instead of right, to Kessler’s office. I’d seen Joe Parker on the sign-in sheet. I had good reason to talk to him. Two reasons, in fact: aside from professional considerations, he’s a friend.
Sergeant Joe Parker and I have a longstanding, informal arrangement which involves us slipping each other hot tips. And I knew he’d been on the Strangler John task force.
Brow furrowed, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, Joe was typing so laboriously that he didn’t hear me approach. So I pounded his desk and shouted, “Wake up, Joe! The criminals are in the building!” He jerked up, startled, hair flying, eyes wide. “Shit, what the —” Seeing it was only me, he pushed his chair back, put his hand on his chest and took a deep breath.
“Jesus, Davey, what the hell you doin’ to me? God awmighty, ya ever hear a’ jus’ walkin’ up an’ sayin’ ‘It’s me, Joe’?” He wagged a finger at me. “You gimme a heart attack ’n’ you’ll have my old lady to deal wit.”
I grinned at him. “Hell, keep spending your Saturdays writing reports, your old lady’s going to have more than a heart attack to complain about, Joe. And if you think Kessler’s going to be impressed, think again. I tried it, and where did it get me?”
Parker sat back, hands behind his head, pulse rate apparently back to normal. He grinned. “See, Davey, that’s the difference ’tween you and me. You did it to impress Kessler, whereas I’m doin’ it ’cause I’m dedicated and wanna better myself. I could care less if Kessler knows I’m doin’ it. I don’t even know if the man’s in the building.”
Of course I had a choice comment on that bit of horsefeathers. That done, I got my butt on a chair and my elbow on his desk.
“I gotta talk to you, man. I’m working for Baker on the Fanning thing. You’re on the task force. What have you got on the guy?”
“You gotta be kiddin’, Davey! You’re so far behind in gotchas, you’ll never catch up! I told you when I saved your butt on that McClain deal, you were gonna have to come up with a dozen tidbits to pay that one back. And what have I got from you since then?”
He was right. But I didn’t let that stop me. “Then give me something on the come, man,” I pleaded. “What’ve you got to lose? I’ll make it up to you, so help me.”
Parker frowned, looked down at his desktop without seeing it, and seemed to come to a decision. “Okay. Gonna give you a hand, Davey, and not just for old time’s sake. Kessler’s so damn hot to nail someone, I don’t think this Fanning guy’s gettin’ a fair shake. I don’t think he’s really it, and I’m not the only one. Doesn’t smell right.
“Blake’s all excited ’cause of a lotta circumstantial shit. Physically, the guy’s big enough. See, from the angles of the cuts on their necks, the lab boys figure the killer must have been at least as tall as the tallest victim. Well, Penniston an’ Morgan, they were both five-ten. Since Fanning’s six-even, he coulda done it. Big effin’ deal — so could half a’ the men — an’ some a’ the women — in this city.”
Parker had a few more choice comments about Blake, after which he began to get helpful. Joe’s main job on the task force had been interviewing the last people known to have seen each victim alive. I pulled out my notebook and took plenty of notes as he proceeded to run down what he’d learned.
For “Little Teri” Langelaar, the first victim, the last person known to have seen her alive had been Angie Demopoulis, fellow prostitute. She’d seen Langelaar working the scene on the west side of Broadway between Forty-sixth and Forty-seventh shortly before midnight on Friday the thirteenth, an hour before the estimated time of death. Angie’d contributed nothing in the way of I.D.ing the murderer.
Joy Foxworth, the second victim, though also a Times Square regular, hadn’t been seen at all that evening. At least not by anyone who’d come forward. Her mother had last seen the girl (Joy was nineteen) when Joy left their apartment in Harlem, presumably to catch the subway downtown, at seven o’clock that evening. Mrs. Foxworth had denied knowing that her daughter was a prostitute. Joe’d been sure she was lying about that, but couldn’t see that it mattered. Nor could I.
Parker’s job description had got changed when victim number three — Laura Penniston — showed up. Blake had reassigned him to more routine duties. Since Penniston was the only high visibility victim, I was ready to believe Joe when he sneeringly told me, “Blake was all over that one. Not bein’ one of your common whores, she had lotsa high-class friends.”
Parker gave me a twisted grin. “People you like to pal around with, Davey, you and the Bish. I think Blake was afraid I might do somethin’ crude. Like spit on their marble floors or somethin’.
“So me, I get assigned the lovely duty of goin’ through Penniston’s little black book — she was a nut for phone numbers. We’d picked it up out of her office by search warrant. Two hunnert and seventeen numbers in that little black book by my actual count. Took me forever to run ’em down. The ones with names beside ’em weren’t so bad but thirty-three of ’em were just scribbled in without any name to go with ’em or noth
in’. But I ran ’em all down and, a’ course, none of ’em led to nothin’. But I guess it made Blake feel good to know I was keepin’ busy.”
But when the strangler got back to icing common whores again, with the discovery of the body of Billie Morgan in Room 303 of the Hot Corner Motel the following Saturday, Parker was back in the witness interviewing business. He’d gone to see the three other black prostitutes Morgan had lived with.
They’d told him she was the only one of the four who’d had the guts to go out looking for customers that Friday, November third. She apparently hadn’t been afraid of Strangler John or anything else. She’d left their apartment around ten, heading (the other girls assumed) for Times Square, her usual stand.
And Parker had found a witness who’d seen her after that. This was the only witness he’d been able to find who’d seen any of the four at or near any of the places where they were actually killed.
“His name’s Phil Martinez,” Joe said. “Manager of the motel. He happened to be workin’ that night, an’ he also happened to know Billie. Said they were ‘friendly,’ for what that’s worth. Denies they ever made it in the sack, but — friendly.” Envisioning the conversation between Parker and Martinez and the kind of questions Joe must have asked to get that denial, I decided Blake had had a point, keeping Parker away from Penniston’s friends and relatives. My friend Parker’s not the smoothest guy in the world.
“Anyhow,” Parker went on, “when Morgan came into the motel, about twelve-thirty, she flipped Martinez a hunnert-dollar bill — to pay for the room. Martinez says he gave it a hard look, C-notes not bein’ his stock in trade much. Looked okay to him, so he changed it for her. I got the receipt — thirty-four something, so she’d of picked up sixty-five and change. That dough never turned up, of course.
“We also got the C-note from Martinez and dusted it. It had a partial of Martinez’s right thumb and a better partial of his right index finger. Also a probable smudge of one of Morgan’s fingers, which backs up his story. That’s it. No other prints.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 5
