The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2)

by Love, William F.

  Regan took another sip, put the coffee on his desk and headed for the windows. He looked out, probably checking to see if there was anything left in the courtway that hadn’t blown away. He couldn’t have done a complete inventory, because he spun to face me after only a couple of seconds.

  “When Mrs. Fanning interrupted us this morning,” the boss said, “I was putting a few finishing touches on that portrait of Mr. Sarnoff you drew. Since then I have come up with a further idea to explore, after which we can discuss optimal deployment of the little information we have. I agree with your assessment that Sarnoff is the key.

  “I suggest a modification of your first point — namely, that Sarnoff is very astute, as evidenced by his ability to trick Miss Penniston. I suggest that he is not only astute, he had an accomplice in his depredations. It strikes me as unlikely that he could have carried out the scheme he did without inside assistance.”

  I thought about it. “Yeah,” I said, nodding. “Yeah, that could be. That could explain how he was able to pull it off so smoothly for so long.”

  Regan nodded. “Then, when Miss Penniston suspected something, he killed her. And in such an elaborate and contrived way that no one would suspect she was other than one of the victims of a psychopathic serial killer.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Now all we’ve got to do is find him.”

  Regan grimaced. “Which has proved devilishly difficult. But if my theory of an inside accomplice is correct, pinpointing the accomplice may be equally productive and a great deal more easily done.

  “We need to formulate a plan, David, though at the moment I’m stumped. Too many missing pieces in the puzzle.”

  So we worked and plotted and devised and, frankly, got nowhere. Regan went from snappish to friendly and back to snappish again. At five minutes to three, no closer to a program than ever, he was at his snappishest.

  “David, if you don’t like my program, I assume it’s because you have a superior one. All right. Let’s hear it.”

  “I didn’t say I had a better one. I’m just saying going back over old ground isn’t getting us anywhere. Why don’t —”

  “We’re not going over old ground. I have in mind —”

  The doorbell interrupted. I took three steps down the hall, saw who it was, and came back into the office on the gallop.

  “Looks like company. And very interesting company, at that. George McClendon, for openers. And Betty Donovan. And a couple who, I strongly suspect, are Mr. and Mrs. Penniston. Laura’s parents.”

  Regan looked at me and glanced at the clock on the wall. One minute to three, the start of his sacrosanct three hours at the word processor.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m sure it’s me they’re after. I can squeeze them into my office. Or take them into the dining room.”

  The Bishop glanced back at the clock to see if it had changed its mind any. He shook his head and tightened his lips.

  “No,” he sighed. “Bring them in here. It’s a day for breaking precedent. We’ll need both our brains if we’re to solve our conundrum. And this has all the earmarks of an unprecedented opportunity.”

  I was delighted — and amazed — but didn’t let it show. “What if they don’t want to see you? As I said, they’re probably here to see me.”

  “Don’t offer them the choice, David,” he said testily. “Just bring them in.”

  I shrugged and headed for the door as it chimed again. And again. And again. Good. They were revved up and ready to talk. Well, we were ready to listen. To anything.

  29

  “Welcome! Don’t stand there shivering! Come in!”

  My cheery greeting was not what they were expecting. Donovan, in stylishly matched royal blue topcoat-and-hat combination, was in the lead. It was obvious they’d picked her for their spokesperson.

  She flounced past me through the door, if someone that size can be said to flounce. Without waiting for me to help, she whipped off hat and coat and hung them on the rack. Her dishwater eyes gave the foyer a thorough going-over.

  Following her was the woman I was guessing was Laura’s mother. I introduced myself (Betty being in no mood to do the honors), and had the guess confirmed. Nearly my height, even in medium heels, she was a pleasant-enough-looking woman, but it was obvious that, whatever her daughter had inherited from her, it hadn’t been her taste in clothes.

  Not only was the cloth coat she wore too light for the weather, it was hopelessly out of style for anywhere. And when I can recognize something’s out of style, well, it’s been out for a while. The dress under it, I noticed as I hung her coat up, was no improvement. Though the figure it covered could have been a model’s figure. Sandy’s description, “no bust, no hips, tiny waist” came to mind. The woman also carried herself well. Most women that tall tend to stoop. This one kept her neck extended and her chin up, looking down regally on all she surveyed.

  I also had to introduce myself to the husband, who was a good six inches shorter than his wife. He was the kind of bouncy, chubby little guy that no one ever takes seriously. His horn-rimmed specs made his eyes look big, round and inquiring. His wife had coolly introduced herself as Mrs. Penniston, but he was at pains to get us on a first-name basis.

  “I’m Roger Penniston, uh, is it David? Pleasure to meet you, David. And this is Maureen.” Roger was the type who beamed a lot. And seemed to mean it.

  McClendon was willing to shake my hand. I thought I even detected a twinkle in his eye behind the beard, though he said nothing.

  When all the coats and hats had been deposited on the rack, I allowed the small silence to grow. Before I said anything, I wanted to hear what they’d come for. Betty broke the ice — no surprise there.

  “I suppose you didn’t think we’d find you,” she said in a gloating tone, smoothing down the front of her jacket. “That hen over there on Broadway tried to give me a hard time. Said you’d call me. Sure you will.” Mr. and Mrs. Penniston had the grace to look embarrassed. McClendon, behind the beard, was unreadable.

  “Yeah,” I answered. “I guess I’m a little surprised. Maybe someday you’ll tell me how you did it. I’m always looking for new detective tricks. But in the meantime, what can I do for you? Any of you?”

  Roger opened his mouth to answer but Betty cut him off. She was the spokesperson and wasn’t giving it up to any Johnny-come-lately.

  “Lieutenant Blake — your former boss — gave us your address. He told us what you’re really up to. Which has nothing to do with Sandra Norville’s hack pay, by the way.” She sneered at me and gave me a chance to defend myself, but I just waited. Seeing I wasn’t going to respond, she glanced at her companions and continued. “We’re here to find out why you’re trying to free the man who killed Laura. Mr. and Mrs. Penniston have a special right to ask, but George and I deserve to hear your answer, too. So —”

  “Please,” I interrupted her. It was time to bring Regan into the discussion. Or, rather, vice versa. “I think my partner in crime should hear this. Through that door, please.” I extended my arm down the hallway.

  I wasn’t sure whether Regan was simply pondering what he was going to say, or just being dramatic. As the four entered the office, they were treated to the sight of a brooding presence at the window. Hunched over in his wheelchair, looking down on the alley, in purple robe and skullcap, he looked like something out of a medieval morality play. I heard a gasp from someone, I think Maureen.

  “Bishop Regan,” I called to him across the room. He spun the wheelchair to face us, face unreadable in the glare of the window behind him. “May I present our visitors?”

  He nodded, and pushed off in our direction, circling his desk and pressing the flesh with all four as I pronounced names. Even the redoubtable Betty seemed in awe. Momentarily.

  Regan was gracious. “Please, sit down and be comfortable. Not a pleasant day to be out and about. Anything to drink? Ah, Sister Ernestine!”

  I’d heard him ring for Ernie while I was in the foyer,
and here she was in the doorway. As the visitors mumbled polite negatives to Regan’s offer, Ernie spoke up.

  “I have some milk on, ladies and gentlemen. May I bring everyone some hot chocolate?” After a brief hesitation the vote was unanimous, in favor. Including Regan and me. Sister beamed.

  The Bishop, now behind his desk, studied the visitors fanned out before him on chairs I’d hastily assembled from around the room. I’d had to get one from the dining room for me. I put it over close to my office door where I could keep the whole room in view. Having their undivided attention, the Bishop spoke.

  “Before you tell me why you came, let me offer you my condolences on the loss of your daughter, friend, business associate. Especially you, Mr. and Mrs. Penniston. It’s not an easy thing to bury one’s offspring.” Both parents’ heads bobbed as one, and the wife spoke up.

  “Thank you, Your Excellency. We appreciate it.” Regan winced slightly at the “Your Excellency. He can’t abide that title, even if it is technically correct. He was opening his mouth to respond when ever-ready Betty butted in.

  “Thanks for the sympathy, but we’re all here to register a complaint and make a demand. Lieutenant Blake has told us all about you — and your man. So maybe you ought to hold your pieties till you hear what we’ve come to say.”

  If Betty wanted to get under the Bishop’s skin, she’d succeeded. He tightened his lips and flicked her a sideward glance. “Of course, Madame. I didn’t realize I was mouthing pieties. By all means, register your complaints. Make your demands. If we are able, Mr. Goldman and I will remedy the situations complained of and comply with your demands.”

  Donovan’s own lips tightened. “I’ll bet,” she snapped. “I’ll just bet you’ll comply. But okay, here’s the complaint. This individual —” She flicked her thumb in my direction “— came charging into our office yesterday —”

  “And hoodwinked two of you. I know what he did, Madame. I’ve heard it from his own lips. Is that your complaint?” The Bishop has a knack of cutting people off without offending them. I wish I knew how he did it. But Betty wasn’t ready to give up the floor.

  “That’s one of my complaints. Not the only one.” She suddenly leaned over, picked up her suede purse off the floor and placed it in her lap. Her eyes found the Bishop’s. “I see there’s no ashtrays. Does that mean I can’t smoke?”

  “It does, indeed, Madame. I’m sorry not to be able to accommodate you. The more expeditiously we proceed, the more speedily can you leave this tobacco-free zone.”

  Betty put her purse back on the floor with an angry flourish. “You people…” she muttered, then got loud again. “All right. We’ll hurry.” She turned to her right. “Roger? Want to tell him what Lieutenant Blake said this morning?”

  Mr. Penniston blushed. He looked, blinking, from the Bishop to me and back to the Bishop.

  “Er, yes,” he said. “We saw —”

  “Excuse me,” came Ernie’s soft voice from the doorway. She’d arrived with six big mugs of hot chocolate and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies. Each mug had a sizable dollop of whipped cream on top, which struck me as a bit excessive. I jumped up and helped Ernestine distribute the goodies. As she left, all eyes returned to Roger and he looked more uncomfortable than ever. He turned to his wife, sitting to his immediate right.

  “Uh, why don’t you tell it, dear?” Maureen glanced at her husband and took in Regan. She put down her mug and took a deep breath.

  “Yes, all right. My husband, Your Excellency, doesn’t —”

  “Please, Madame.” The Bishop can’t take two of those in one sitting. “I dislike that honorific. I pray you, call me Father, call me Mister, call me anything. But please don’t call me Your Excellency.”

  She shrugged. “What then? I’m certainly not going to call you Mister!”

  Regan shrugged back. “‘Bishop’ is most acceptable.”

  “Fine.” Maureen was happy to have the whole thing settled. “In any case, Bishop, we went to see Inspector Kessler this morning to find out how the police are progressing on the murder of our daughter. You can imagine how we feel, living a thousand miles away, not knowing what’s going on. We saw in the Wichita Eagle that the killer — the alleged killer — had been jailed, and was being held.

  “Of course, nothing’s going to bring our daughter back, but knowing that the man who did it is in custody has helped us a little. I’m sure the mothers of those three other girls must feel the same way. Anyway, we met briefly with the Inspector, and he referred us to Lieutenant Blake. Mr. Kessler told us the lieutenant is responsible for the case and that, furthermore, it was his brilliant questioning of one of the witnesses that destroyed this Fanning’s alibi once and for all and made it definite that he’s the murderer.”

  Maureen reached out her hand and Roger took it. I wouldn’t have thought she needed any support, the way she sounded — firm and steady. She continued and, sure enough, her voice did begin to crack a little.

  “Well, Bishop, just imagine how we feel. Laura came to this big city. For eight years Roger and I worried about her — and she was just fine! Then this monster has to come all the way here from Oklahoma and murder our little girl. I just —” Maureen stopped. Tears began. But she didn’t avert her gaze from the Bishop’s face, nor look for a hanky, nor let go of Roger’s hand. Just sat there, proudly, weeping, looking at the Bishop.

  “Some tissues, Madame?” Regan said. “No? As you wish.” He waited for her to get herself together. “Madame. You — and the police — are under a misapprehension. The misapprehension that Mr. Fanning murdered your daughter and those other three women. He did not. I can —” I don’t suppose Regan was surprised at the interruption. So he remained placid when McClendon jumped in, beard atremble, reedy voice even more high-pitched than normally.

  “You have got to be a maniac, sir! Roger and Maureen told us all the evidence the police have. We even know about some that hasn’t even been released to the general public.” He glanced to his left. “Okay to tell him, Roger?”

  Penniston nodded solemnly, still holding his wife’s hand.

  “I don’t see why not,” Roger said. “After all, the man’s a Bishop.” He blinked at Regan good-naturedly. The Bishop just glanced at him and answered McClendon.

  “You’re wasting your breath, sir. You were, I presume, going to reveal that Mr. Fanning is known to have left his residence at around midnight on the night of all four murders and returned home after the murders were committed. And that he lied to the police about those sojourns, claiming he was home in bed when, in fact, he was not. Yes?”

  McClendon was thunderstruck. “But if you knew that —”

  Mrs. Penniston interrupted imperiously. “Please, Mr. McClendon, allow me.” She released her husband’s hand and lifted her jaw higher than before. Her eyes burned into the Bishop’s. He didn’t flinch.

  “Yes, Bishop,” she said. “If you knew that — if you know that — why do you go on working for that — monster? Lieutenant Blake told us that you and Mr. Goldman and some lawyer named Baker are doing everything in your power to interfere with the police investigation and get this Fanning back out on the streets so he can murder again.” Her voice rose for the first time.

  “That’s the man who killed our daughter, Bishop, and we want him put away. Why are you doing this? Why are you protecting him? Why?”

  Maureen reached into the purse on her lap, pulled out some tissues and blew her nose. Everyone in the room was looking at her and she knew it, but she wasn’t meeting anyone’s eye. Just sitting there, straight and proud.

  The Bishop’s response was soft. “Madame. The police have been unusually forthright with you. As parents of one of the victims, I think you were entitled to that. I’ll try to be equally so, though I’m at the disadvantage of having to safeguard a professional confidence.

  “I said before, Mr. Fanning murdered no one. I’m not at liberty to divulge the full story, but you can trust us, Mr. Goldman and I know his
whereabouts during the time of every single murder. Our knowledge is based on Mr. Goldman’s interview with an unimpeachable witness. Mr. Fanning could not have murdered your daughter.

  “I have no animus toward the police. It is not their fault that Mr. Goldman and I happen to be privy to this information and they are not. They have every reason to believe they have the right man. But they don’t. And in the fullness of time they will realize it. Only then will they start looking for the real killer. Which is what Mr. Goldman is attempting to do now. With some help from me.” Regan leaned forward and turned up the palms of both hands.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Penniston. You have no quarrel with me. Or with Mr. Fanning. He didn’t travel here a thousand miles with his wife and baby to commit murder. He came attempting — perhaps not always wisely or too well, but sincerely — to convert people to Jesus Christ.

  “That he is behind bars is his misfortune and the murderer’s good fortune. In a real, if limited, sense he has something in common with your daughter. He is also the murderer’s victim. Mr. Goldman and I have a twofold mission: to free an innocent man and to put the guilty one away. Your interests and ours are, for all practical purposes, identical.”

  From where I was sitting I could observe all four of our guests. All paid close attention, but the one who seemed most affected was, to my surprise, Betty Donovan. When Regan began his speech she was her usual fidgety self, probably dying for a cigarette. By the time he finished, she was hanging on every word. I suspected she’d be the first to respond, never mind that the Bishop was talking to the parents. She didn’t disappoint me.

  “That’s amazing, Bishop,” she said. “You’re really certain of the man’s innocence?”

  Regan didn’t take his eyes off Mr. and Mrs. Penniston, holding hands again, but he nodded and answered.

  “Yes, Madame. We are certain.” He swung his eyes to her, then back to the parents. “Which is my excuse for asking your cooperation. Mr. Goldman and I have a few questions of you. If you’d be kind enough to indulge us?”