The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  “He come to see me this morning, when he got out of jail, Bishop,” Ida said. “Jerry’s —” Her voice caught. “He’s in trouble, Bishop. Please tell him what happened, Henry. Please!” The kid glanced at her, then finally gave the Bishop more than a second’s worth of eye contact.

  “Mist’ Fanning, he in big trouble, sir,” he said, and stopped to clear his throat. “He in trouble with a couple them bad-asses in the joint. They beat him up yest’dy. Hurt him pretty bad, too, I think.”

  “There was a fight?” I asked. Henry didn’t look at me. He smiled a sad little smile at the floor.

  “No sir, it wasn’t no fight. Michael and Calvin, they just stomped him.”

  “Who are Michael and Calvin?” the Bishop asked softly. “And what, if any, was their complaint against Mr. Fanning?”

  “Like I say, they two bad-asses in the joint. Michael Habbaz and Calvin X. They Muslims, you know? And they don’t like Mist’ Fanning talkin’ so much bout Jesus, know what I mean? Mist’ Fanning, he turn my life around. My momma, she always try to get me to accept Jesus, but I never did. I quit school four years ago, started shootin’ up and gangbangin’, you know?” Henry’s voice was muffled.

  “I knew Michael before; we hung out together, you know? He’s the one give me my name: Pee Wee. And Calvin got to be friends with Michael in the joint.” Justice took a breath and looked Regan straight in the eye for the first time. “Guess it’s my fault Mist’ Fanning got hurt. Soon as he started telling me bout Jesus, it was like I was a new man, just like he said I would be. And he told me I just had to spread the word, you know?

  “So I went to Michael. I wanted the Lord to touch him, way He touched me, you know? Only He didn’t touch Michael a-tall. Michael, he big, you know? Michael grab me and slap me up side the head, say, ‘You dumb nigger, you don’t know no better’n to listen to some jive honky tellin’ you all about Whitey’s God?’ He got with Calvin and they was both plenty mad. I laid low after that, but they both knew I’d gone over.

  “Michael and me, we’re blood, you know? So Michael, he ain’t gone hurt me none. But he and Calvin, they went after Jerry — Mist’ Fanning.” Henry swallowed. “They waited for dinnertime yest’dy, then they got him right outside the mess hall. Calvin, he started messin’ with him, gettin’ in his face, you know? And Mist’ Fanning, he finally swung at Calvin. And then the two just whupped Mist’ Fanning good, knock him down and stomp on him.”

  Henry looked at Regan as though he expected some questions, but Regan just waited. “Guards, they was right there, so didn’t last long. And Calvin just got his blade confiscated, so Mist’ Fanning, he didn’t get cut none. But they hurt him good anyway, you know? Mist’ Fanning had to go to the infirmary. And he’s not walkin’ so good today. All humped over like it hurt him, you know?”

  Justice took a breath and looked at Ida Mae but she was focused on Regan.

  “That’s why we come to you, Bishop,” she said. “I hate to ask it, but can you do anything? Anything at all?” She looked at me and asked me the same question with her eyes.

  Regan’s eyes were closed and he was rubbing his face wearily. Everyone waited for him to respond. He finally did.

  “You say you saw Mr. Fanning this morning, Mr. Justice?”

  “Yes sir,” Henry said softly. “Saw him at breakfast. He come in, walkin’ real slow and humped over, you know? But soon’s he gets there, he starts talkin’ to one of the brothers, tellin’ him about Jesus, same as he first talked to me, you know? And Michael and Calvin were there, too, just starin’ at him real mean-like. But he just stared back.” Justice shook his head admiringly. “That man ain’t ’fraid of nothin’ or nobody.” He frowned.

  “Onliest thing is, Calvin say he gone to find him another blade and off the dude, you know? That’s why I come to Miz Fanning. Mist’ Fanning, he need some help, and he aint gone to help hisself none, no way.”

  Justice shut up, looked at Regan for a moment, then resumed the study of his Nikes. Regan gave him a long look, then turned to Ida Mae. She met his gaze squarely.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fanning,” he said. “I’m not sure there is much that Mr. Goldman or I can do. But we’ll try.” He frowned in concentration for a moment. “I should tell you something. Your husband is innocent. Mr. Goldman, through certain investigations he has done, has established that.” Ida looked at me and started to speak, but the Bishop cut her off. “Unfortunately, our information is privileged, and we can share it neither with the police nor with you. Consequently, our ability to use it is limited. For the moment.” He ran his fingers through his hair, for him a sign of desperation.

  “Mr. Goldman and I need to discuss matters. Since it now seems that your husband’s life is in jeopardy, it may be that we should take bolder steps to get him released. So — if you have nothing further…?”

  I saw Ida Mae and Henry out. She turned to me while putting on her coat and started to say something but changed her mind and looked away. I promised her I’d call, and wished Henry good luck.

  Back in Regan’s office, I followed up on his closing remark to Ida.

  “So what about it? You sending me down to the jail to talk Fanning into releasing us from that vow of silence?”

  “Vow of silence,” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’s really too bad you’re not Catholic, David. Your multifaceted misunderstanding of theological terminology would qualify you to enter the seminary of your choice. But — yes, I would like you to go to the jail and speak to Mr. Fanning.” He looked at his watch.

  “You’ll have to skip lunch. Or rush it. Regrettable, but can’t be helped. Under the circumstances. Why should we waste time and energy proving him innocent, if he is going to use equivalent time and energy getting himself killed?” He sighed. “We must get him out of there. Talk to him, David. Tell him if he releases me from the seal — which is not a vow, by the way — I’ll do my best to set things right with his wife. Tell him —”

  Regan grimaced, put his head back and looked at the ceiling. His eyes closed tighter and tighter. I began to wonder if he was having a heart attack and was halfway to my feet, when his eyes suddenly popped open and he gave as deep a sigh as I’ve ever heard from him. “I must go,” he groaned.

  I was amazed. “Are you sure you want to, Bishop? I —”

  “No!” he snapped. “I’m quite certain I don’t.” He groaned again. “Make arrangements, David. We’ll go immediately after lunch.”

  27

  Sure. “Make arrangements.” Easy for him to say. He ought to try making them sometime.

  Getting Fred at the garage to bring the car around was duck soup, due purely to the dumb luck of him having a slow day. But arrangements at the jail were a different matter. Fran Wilson being unavailable, it took Davis L. Baker, famous attorney-at-law, to get it done.

  Not that Regan cared. He just expects things to happen, and they usually do. One of these days I’m going to quit for longer than a day, and he’ll find out what it’s really like to fend with the cruel world on his own.

  The Bishop was too glum to enjoy Sister’s elaborately prepared lunch. He’d just come down from changing clothes, replacing the purple robe and beanie with his clerical black suit. That’s got to be part of his aversion to going anywhere: for a paraplegic, changing clothes is not the simple affair it is for you and me. And, naturally, he won’t let me help.

  The weather he had to go out into wasn’t calculated to make him feel any better. I checked it from the south window while he changed. The sleety snow had switched to sleety rain and the wind had, if anything, gained in intensity. While I was looking out, a sizable garbage can came rattling down the courtway from the west, bouncing off fences and dribbling contents as it made its way for Tenth Avenue.

  I had my own problem with Ernie’s lunch, for a totally different reason.

  My mother made the mistake, years ago, of sharing a few of her Jewish recipes with her friend, Sister Ernestine. Ernie — who with her gentile dishes is not a
bad cook at all — uses my mom’s recipes all the time and not one tastes the way it should. Maybe you have to be Jewish, I don’t know.

  To the “Shabbat stew” Ernie served that day, I added about a quarter pound of salt and pepper, thus rendering it close to edible. Ketchup would have helped even more, but that would have hurt Ernie’s feelings. Sister beamed at seeing me eat and I tried to smile back.

  Fred brought the car around at 12:50, and I got the Bishop down the steps, him keeping his hat in place with both hands. Going crosstown, I began to see the wisdom of having walked home that morning. Horrible as the weather was, at least walking you could make some headway. Half the population of Manhattan had obviously decided to drive around town and watch all the unattached flotsam and jetsam blow around. We did well just to be twelve minutes late for our 1:00 P.M. appointment.

  Jerry didn’t look as bad as I’d feared. I’ve seen a few victims of battery in my day, and Jerry looked no different than most. Below his eye was a black-and-blue lump, and his puffed-up lower lip made him even harder to understand than usual. But his eyes were defiant and unafraid. Saturday, he’d been a man with a mission. Today he was a man who’s seen his mission start to succeed.

  Regan opened the conversation, operating the button on the phone like he’d done it all his life.

  “I’m sorry about your condition, Mr. Fanning. What can we do?”

  Fanning tried to smile, winced, and straightened his lips. But the smile stayed in his eyes. “Thankth for coming, Bithop,” he lisped around the puffy lip. “You shouldn’t ha’ bothered.”

  “Nonsense!” Regan answered briskly. “My pleasure.” Pleasure. I didn’t dare look at him. Fanning flipped me a wink. He didn’t believe him either. Regan got down to business.

  “Mr. Fanning. We have just spoken with Mr. Henry Justice, whom I believe you know. Your wife brought him to us.” Jerry nodded. Regan took a breath.

  “He told us of your altercation yesterday with those two inmates. He also told us that he regards it as probable that you will be attacked again — more severely attacked. It is important that you leave here. Today.” Jerry scowled and looked away. The Bishop waited. Jerry finally faced Regan again. Holding his eye, the Bishop pleaded.

  “Jerry. We have now established independent verification of your presence at that theater on those four evenings. If the police knew that, you would be exculpated and released from here immediately. So I am now asking you, I am begging you, to tell them about that —”

  “Nossir,” Fanning said into the instrument. His voice sounded thin and distorted. He smiled with the uninjured half of his mouth and shook his head at the Bishop. “That’s no good. Let me tell you what’s going on.”

  Regan nodded abruptly, pressing the receiver tightly against his ear.

  “See, I got some of these ol’ boys listenin’ to the message, don’t y’see, Bishop?” The fundie’s face was animated, his voice lively in spite of the lisp. “It’s the first time since I got to this here misbegotten city that anyone’s taken me serious. They’re really listenin’, Bishop. And they want to know what the Lord’s saying to them. Course, Satan don’t want none of that, and he provoked those two to do what they did.

  “But the Lord turned the tables on Satan. I could see the expressions on some of the other guys’ faces. Bishop, they were looking at me like I was somebody.”

  Fanning looked at the far wall and blinked a couple of times. He glanced at me, immediately looked away and went on, avoiding both our eyes.

  “I just can’t tell the police — or anybody else — about my sinnin’, Bishop.” He snuck another glance at me, presumably for signs of any reaction on my part. “It’d just tear up everything I’m starting to accomplish in here. Don’t you see?” He gave Regan a look of appeal.

  I tapped on the glass. Jerry turned his face to me, and I noticed how bloodshot his left eye was — the one with the lump under it. I tried a grin and my most persuasive voice.

  “Come on, Jerry, give yourself a break, man. Sleaze is a part of life and no one’s going to blame you for spending a couple of hours in a sleaze parlor. It’s no big deal.”

  Fanning obviously didn’t agree. He blushed, shook his head and turned away. I shrugged and gave the boss a glance. He ignored me and kept after Jerry hard. For fifteen minutes he launched every attack he could think of on Jerry’s position, but got no further with that than he had two weeks before when he’d tried to stick holes in fundamentalism.

  Regan finally threw up a hand.

  “All right, Mr. Fanning,” he growled. “I understand your position, but you’re making a big mistake. I have to tell you, when I came down here, I had resolved, if you refused to let us go to the police with the truth, that I was going to leave you to your fate. You’re not being fair to yourself, your wife, your child — and certainly not to God.”

  Regan shot me a sidelong glance. “But we will continue. For now.” He glared at Jerry.

  Jerry started to answer, but Regan cut him off. “Just remember, if you change your mind, tell Mr. Baker to get in touch with Mr. Goldman immediately. We will get you out.”

  “Thanks,” Jerry answered calmly. “I’m sorry you don’t agree, but at least you see what I’m trying to do here. If you could just see the looks on these fellows’ faces when they hear about what the Lord wants to do for them! I tell you, Bishop, it’s —”

  “Please, Mr. Fanning,” Regan said wearily. “Don’t, I beg you, waste your time and mine trying to justify your recalcitrance. Let us know when you’ve had enough of this place.” Without a look at Jerry or me he spun his chair around and pushed for the door. I gave Jerry a quick glance over my shoulder as I hustled to open the door for the Bishop before he tried to ram it. Jerry gave me a goodbye wink.

  28

  Back home, Regan went up to his room to change into his robes. And I found a note on my desk, Ernie telling me to call Cheryl. Turned out Cheryl’d had a visitor while the Bishop and I were visiting the jail.

  “A Betty Donovan came busting in here an hour ago, Davey. Thinks she’s the Queen of Sheba or something. Demanded to know where you were, how she could get hold of you. I don’t think she likes you too well.”

  “Hey, women have all kinds of different ways of showing affection, Cheryl. Take you. If I didn’t know how much you cared, I’d sometimes think you —”

  “Will you get serious, Davey? I’m telling you, this gal is steaming! She’s ready to go to the police. Says you pulled a scam on her and some other people. And Davey, she knows you represent Fanning; she says you tried to hide that from her. I mean she’s mad, Davey, and I really think she might go to the cops.”

  I took a minute to calm Cheryl down a little.

  “So I did right in not giving her your home address?” she asked anxiously.

  “Oh, yeah,” I grinned. “You got that right. I want her popping up on my doorstep about like I want a second head. But if she calls again — or comes by — try to reach me. I’d like to talk to her.”

  “Yeah, well, she sure wants to talk to you, pal, I can tell you that. I’ve got a feeling she’ll be back.”

  Which didn’t bother me as much as Cheryl thought it should. Because I had a few questions of my own for Miss Donovan. In fact, I had a lot more questions than Betty could answer.

  I decided to go to the Answer Man. Rozanski was available, but not to talk. At least not for more than thirty seconds.

  “Yeah, yeah, Davey, I’d love to talk to you, but we’re going nuts down here. Got anything that’s absolutely got to go in this afternoon’s paper?” Chet paused, but not long enough for me to say anything.

  “Obviously not,” he rushed on, after about a second. “If you can’t think of it any faster than that, it can wait for tomorrow. See ya.”

  “Hold it!” I roared. He grunted impatiently but didn’t hang up — yet.

  I talked fast.

  “I’ve got something hot for you on the Strangler John case. But it’ll wait…” Chet sta
rted to interrupt, but I rode over him. “Hold it, Chet! It’s no good for today. For now, I need to ask you one question. How much have you got on those five people we discussed yesterday — Donovan, Theodore, McClendon, Stubbs and the lovely Miss Norville — that you haven’t already given me?”

  Chet sighed loudly. “You never quit, do you, Davey?” He took a deep breath. “I’ve really got to go, man. But yeah, I might have a couple of facts and figures beyond what I told you about, yesterday.”

  “Good. I thought so. Stop by after work tonight and I’ll give you a few facts and figures you haven’t got. Some of it off the record for now, but all of it good. And you’d better bring something of your own, or you get nothing.”

  Rozanski sounded bored. “What’s up? You trying to build a case that one of them’s Strangler John?”

  “Nope. Not Strangler John. But one of them knows him. I just don’t know which one. And you can take that to the bank.”

  Chet suddenly decided he had more time than he thought. He started pumping. But when he saw he’d get nothing till I had what he had, he subsided. Not without an insult or two.

  “All right, you sandbagging piece of horse manure. You’ve got me interested, I’ll give you that. I’ll be by at eight o’clock with everything I’ve got. But you better have something.”

  Ten minutes later, I joined Regan in his office to see if we could brainstorm up any more ideas for finding Sarnoff. This gave us half an hour, it being 2:30, since his schedule — in this case, writing from 3:00 P.M. to 6:00 P.M., daily — takes precedence over everything.

  The Bishop’s face was lined from fatigue. The case was getting to him. He sipped coffee Ernie’d brought, presumably trying to wake up his brain cells.

  “So, David,” he began, frowning at his cup. “Any ideas?”

  “Ideas? Yeah, two. One, our client won’t help himself. Two, there’s a murderer out there we don’t have a clue how to find.”

  “Ah! Not so fast. Your portrait of Sarnoff this morning was very illuminating. Nicely done. Let’s consider some possibilities.”