Roger, speaking for all, demanded an explanation. “But I still don’t understand how you deduced it wasn’t a religious psychopath. And Betty! My God, Maureen and I knew Betty, or thought we did, and it never occurred to us that she might be capable of — this!”
“The guy with the answers is my ecclesiastical ally over there,” I told him, aiming a thumb over my shoulder. All eyes moved to the Bishop. The only sound was a gurgle by Joe Bob, who was testing out Regan’s pectoral cross as a teething device.
“Joe Bob!” Ida shrilled at the desecration. She jumped up and headed for the baby. The Bishop stopped her with an upraised hand.
“Please, Mrs. Fanning. ‘Suffer the little children…’ Yes?”
He smiled at her. She smiled back. And promptly made the appeal I’d asked her to. Her twangy Oklahoma accent helped. But knowing the boss, I think it was her youthful sweetness that carried the day.
“Please join us, Bishop. Joe Bob won’t be no trouble. And we’d all be proud to hear how you figured it out.”
Regan’s smile faded. He surveyed the group, ending at me. He had me. I shrugged and tried to look innocent.
The boss sighed, murmured “Hang on, Joseph,” and, to the baby’s delight, rolled quickly to the desk. I yielded the place of honor. With pleasure.
Ensconced at his proper spot, Regan patted the baby absently and took in the group, looking longest at Kessler in the corner.
“First of all,” the boss finally said, “I have a confession to make.” He paused, frowning at the cooing infant in concentration. Suddenly he lifted him, causing a scream of glee, high over his head.
The smile on Regan’s face, as he craned to look up at the baby, vanished abruptly. Joe Bob’s mouth, wide open with laughter, was developing a sizable leak, and a dollop of drool was heading Bishopward. The prelate quickly jerked his face out of harm’s way and settled the baby back into his lap. Plenty of laughter, especially by Joe Bob.
Ida Mae hopped over to wipe the boy’s mouth, and gasped. “Bishop! Your robe! It’s all wet. Joe Bob, you —!”
The Bishop stopped her. “Madame. Joseph simply did what babies do. This soutane is not stained. If it is, I’ll wear it anyway, in honor of my small friend. Eh, Joseph?” He smiled, first at Joe Bob, then up at Ida.
“Nonetheless, perhaps you’d better take him, Mrs. Fanning. For now.”
Rid of his tiny burden, Regan got to the point. “I said I had a confession. The confession needs to be linked to an apology — to Mr. Goldman.” Regan glanced at me. “You have all seen the angry scars on his neck and face. Miss Donovan did that today in her earnest and nearly successful attempt to kill him. The damage she inflicted is directly attributable to my nonfeasance. I failed abjectly to warn him about her till it was too late to be of any use.
“Too late to warn Mr. Goldman of the extreme danger he’d be in if he were alone with her. All credit for her apprehension belongs to him. But —” He looked at Ida Mae “— since you ask, let me see if I can explain my thought processes.”
Regan turned to Kessler. “Inspector. You asked Mr. Goldman today how we could be so certain that Mr. Fanning was not the murderer.” The Bishop glanced at the fundie. “Mr. Fanning and I are Christians. We have prayed together. I went to see him in jail and asked him point-blank if he was guilty. He responded that he is guilty of a great many things — but not of murder. I believed him. As a fellow Christian, I could do no other. Mr. Goldman, though no Christian, was willing to share my conviction.”
Kessler looked skeptical, with good reason. In the silence that followed, he started to speak, glanced at Fanning and subsided. I could have told Kessler how justified his skepticism was. But I left it at rolled eyes and kept my mouth shut.
Fanning spoke up, his expression two parts sheepishness, one part defiance. “I have to confess, Bishop. I told Ida Mae this morning, and I want to tell all of you.”
“Surely, this isn’t necessary, Mr. Fanning,” Regan said.
“Yes it is, Bishop,” Jerry answered immediately and confidently. Ida Mae nodded. Joe Bob was now sleeping noisily, his face scrunched into her shoulder.
So we all got treated to Jerry’s confession. He probably got more sympathy for his porno-movie peccadillo than he would have if everyone hadn’t wanted him to shut up. We wanted to hear the Bishop’s explanation.
Though Jerry’s sincerity was moving. He ended with, “I still love my wife and baby, and I just hope the Lord’ll be as good to me as they are.” He looked at Kessler. “Now you know where I was, Inspector. See why I didn’t want to talk about it none?”
Kessler nodded and gave a slight smile through the beard. He turned to Regan. “And you couldn’t tell me, because of the seal of the confessional.” The Bishop nodded. Kessler’s a Presbyterian but I guess he knows Catholic lingo.
“Okay,” Kessler said. “Now: how’d you figure out it was Donovan?”
Regan closed his eyes. “I must first explain how I reasoned that Miss Penniston must have known her attacker.”
Kessler stared. Regan proceeded to lay it out: how Laura’s failure to resist had tipped him. Kessler nodded as he listened.
“Not bad,” he said when Regan finished. “So based on that, you had Davey sniff around the Penniston agency?”
“Indeed. The first thing we were looking for was a motive. And a likely one came to our attention almost immediately, with the discovery of the Models for Hire fraud. As you know, Mr. Kessler, a Steven Sarnoff had been looting Penniston Associates for a year and a half. Uncovering the swindle was child’s play for David. As was the identity of its perpetrator — or so it seemed. Except that Steven Sarnoff was nowhere to be found.
“So we began looking for him. And as he studied the man’s modus operandi, Mr. Goldman came to certain conclusions about Sarnoff’s personality and character. He deduced that he must be patient, devious, intelligent and, above all, familiar with banking practices and policies.
“My own contribution at that stage was nugatory: that ‘Sarnoff’ must be an alias. Well…” Regan reddened slightly and looked around. The room seemed to hush a little.
“Well,” Regan said in a quieter voice, “I did consider the possibility that Sarnoff might actually be one of the five friends of Miss Penniston David had talked to. As I compared each to the template that David and I had projected, Betty Donovan alone possessed all the requisite characteristics. But…she was a woman.” Regan smiled grimly.
“Now I’m not so foolish as to think a woman incapable of using a man’s name for a pseudonym. Or of murder, for that matter. But I was foolish enough to believe — albeit unconsciously — that a woman wouldn’t commit crimes this heinous. And that was criminally foolish.”
Kessler was interested. “So what finally disabused you of that, er, misapprehension?”
Regan sighed. “It wasn’t easy. Let me begin at the beginning. Operating on the theory that ‘Sarnoff’ was a pseudonym for one of Miss Penniston’s associates, I was certain that her discovery of his identity precipitated her death. So, who was ‘Sarnoff’? In my foolishness, I was sure he was a man.”
“So you were down to the three men in the picture,” muttered Kessler. “Theodore, Stubbs and McClendon.” Regan nodded.
“At first, yes. Yet none fit the mold. First of all, Stubbs. He had motive, of a sort. Miss Penniston had thrown him over for Mr. Theodore eighteen months before — coincidentally, at the very time ‘Sarnoff’ was beginning his raids on the Penniston treasury. But Mr. Stubbs was exculpated by height considerations. At five-seven, he is three inches too short to have been the killer. Correct, Inspector?”
Kessler nodded. “The marks on the throat showed that the killer had to be at least as tall as any of the victims. If Stubbs is five-seven, he’s a good three inches shorter than either Morgan or Pen —” The Inspector reddened. “Or your daughter,” he ended lamely, nodding at the parents.
Regan jumped back in. “So Stubbs was excluded. Which brings us to Robert Theodore. Mr.
Theodore had a motive — he was short of funds, despite his wealthy father. And he was certainly of sufficient height and strength.
“But his temperament and, frankly, his intelligence did not seem up to the demands of the job. Furthermore, the fact that he was caught in a dalliance with Miss Norville by Miss Penniston just hours before her death argued against his guilt. It was inconceivable to me that a killer as patient, intelligent and cold-blooded as this one could have been so distracted by lust in the midst of his crime as to fall prey to temptation. Unless the dalliance were a deliberate act designed for some ulterior motive, and I could imagine no such motive.
“So I refused to accept it, thus ruling him out of consideration, at least provisionally. And Miss Norville as well, incidentally, had she not already been excluded by several other considerations — most notably, her slightness of stature. And, of course, her gender.” Regan made a face.
“But they cooked up that alibi together,” I objected. “Couldn’t they have also —?”
“No,” the boss snapped. “Whoever this killer was, his plot didn’t begin the night of Miss Penniston’s murder. That foolish attempt at an alibi was as exculpatory as anything those two could have devised. I refused to believe this cold-blooded, cautious, farsighted monster could be capable of that kind of jackassery.”
“Leaving McClendon,” commented Kessler. “A very unsavory individual. Were you aware he has a police record?”
“Oh yes,” Regan murmured. “But reflective of a different kind of violence. His were crimes of passion, however twisted the passion. Nothing about those sadomasochistic episodes with prostitutes suggested the foresight this criminal exhibited.
“Furthermore, he was in no position to set up the scheme which defrauded Laura Penniston’s — and Betty Donovan’s — company of well over a hundred thousand dollars. Getting memos to Miss Norville with Miss Penniston’s forged signature on them, arranging payments so that the models got their expected fees with plenty left over for the thief — McClendon was in no position to do any of that.
“No. Examined coldly and objectively, Miss Donovan was the only possible candidate.” Regan began to tick off points on his fingers. “First: she was in a prime position to loot the company. She alone held fiscal responsibility. Second: motivation. Miss Donovan’s chain-smoking hinted at an addictive personality. Also her use of marijuana. And several informants suggested use of stronger drugs. If true, and if that use had passed on to addiction, there was the possibility of a need for funds to support her habit. Visits of the mysterious Harv with his mysterious packages transformed possibility into likelihood. Third: ability. That was answered when we learned that she had studied Chung-Mu-Quan.”
Maureen Penniston interrupted. “I thought that was a form of karate. Isn’t that a peaceful philosophy?”
“On the contrary, Madame. Practitioners of Chung-Mu-Quan boast of their ability to use many and various instruments to inflict death. Miss Donovan’s leaning seems to have been in the direction of piano wire.”
“But where’d she get the wire?” Roger asked.
Kessler intervened. “We’re working on that, Mr. Penniston. Thanks to Davey, we have the wire itself. I doubt that we’ll ever find out where she got it, but that doesn’t matter. We’ve got plenty to indict and convict. Miss Donovan’s in custody at City Hospital and her condition has stabilized. We’ll be able to ask her a few questions in a day or two. Not that I’m counting on getting many answers.”
All eyes went back to Regan as he continued. “But my fixation on Miss Donovan’s femininity had me convinced that she could be at most an accomplice in the crimes.” He shook his head and looked down. “This prejudice — which is what it is — is, I now realize, a part of me, and has been since my childhood. That it is, for the most part, unconscious is no excuse. Discovering its presence within me has been as humiliating as any experience I’ve ever had.” Regan took a breath and resumed.
“Thus I stayed on the trail of the elusive Steven Sarnoff long after it was — or, at least, should have been — painfully obvious he didn’t exist. This perverse blindness persisted until today, after David left.
“At that point a chance vulgarity of David’s brought to mind the same vulgarity, used by the final victim. The manager of the motel where she died told one of your men, Inspector, that the woman — an Afro-American named Billie Morgan — had said, ‘Not bad for an old broad.’ This, while displaying a one-hundred-dollar bill she had just received from her customer. Do you recall the remark, Inspector?”
Kessler frowned. “Yes.”
“To whom did you imagine Miss Morgan was referring when she used that expression?”
“Herself, of course. Who else?”
“Who else, indeed? That was the question I finally got around to asking myself this afternoon. I am not an expert on Afro-American culture, but I have kept my ears open. It suddenly struck me that use of that particular epithet is uncharacteristic of Afro-Americans. To confirm it, I telephoned Sheriff Langston of Catskill County, an acquaintance of Mr. Goldman’s and mine. I believe you also know him, Mr. Kessler.”
Kessler scowled. Langston’s a sore subject between us because of the Bishop’s unorthodox tactics in the McClain case.
“Mr. Langston,” Regan went on, unperturbed, “is Afro-American. He confirmed my suspicion. In black street argot, the term broad is seldom used. And when it is, it almost always refers to white women. Almost never to Afro-Americans. Making it highly unlikely that Miss Morgan was referring to herself. If not herself, then whom? Was it possible her ‘john’ was a woman?
“A woman. Suddenly, scales dropped from my eyes. I realized that sexism had been coloring my perceptions, and quickly reevaluated the other pertinent data. As I began to consider — seriously, at last — all the other evidence pointing to Miss Donovan, everything fell into place.
“Take the whispered warning to the Dispatch. Why did the murderer whisper? The call wasn’t being taped. But: if the caller wished to disguise her gender, what better way?
“But by now I was helpless. Failing to reach Mr. Goldman at the Hilton, then learning from Mr. Penniston that our earring ploy had been prematurely activated, I knew instantly where Mr. Goldman had gone and his possible peril. But there was nothing to do but pray. Which Sister Ernestine and I proceeded to do. With fortunate results.”
Kessler snorted. “Yes, very fortunate, Bishop. Considering you were in possession of several key facts in a murder investigation you didn’t see fit to entrust to me. Now, I’m as much for prayer as the next guy. But we Protestants have a saying: The Lord helps those who help themselves. You could have helped me — and Davey — if you’d seen fit to give me a call this afternoon. I’d have at least tried not to mess up your little scheme.”
Regan faced the angry stare and shrugged. “And done what, Inspector? I dearly longed to call you. But what could I have said? That, for my own good and sufficient reasons, I’d deduced that Betty Donovan was the Strangler, and that she might be lying in wait for David in that office? Can you honestly say you’d have paid the slightest attention to such a call, given your belief, bordering on conviction, that you had the true murderer in custody?”
A brief staring contest. Kessler blinked first. He shrugged. “Maybe not, Bishop, maybe not. But it’d sure be nice if you were ever to get me involved in one of your cases before the murderer has tried to kill you or Davey.”
Regan smiled. “Next time, Inspector. You have my word.”
The interchange seemed to wake Dave Baker up. Tearing his eyes away from his watch, he had a question. “What happened the evening Laura Penniston died, Bishop? I don’t understand how Betty Donovan could have made that call to Laura when she was at the party the whole time.”
Regan shook his head. “We only assumed a phone call was made, Mr. Baker. At no time did Miss Penniston say she had talked to anyone on the phone. She said Mr. Sarnoff had called, and that she was going to meet and unmask him.
“What m
ust have happened is this: Miss Donovan left a message for Miss Penniston on her desk and arranged for someone to summon Miss Penniston to her office. The note was probably on the order of ‘Sarnoff called. Go to Room 320 of 601 West Forty-ninth and wait for him.’ It was undoubtedly signed by Miss Donovan, whom Miss Penniston trusted. And with it would have been the key to the office to which she was being dispatched.
“Miss Penniston went as instructed. While there she did something without which the crime might never have been solved. Following her highly useful practice — now second nature to her — she jotted the number of the phone in that office on her palm. She did so in her own unique shorthand which remained impenetrable to all decoding efforts — until last night.
“I think she also took a nap. Divesting herself of her earrings, she probably leaned back on the couch and fell into a deep sleep. No doubt the phone call from Miss Donovan, when it came, was alive with urgency. Miss Donovan was downstairs, Sarnoff would appear at any moment, they must hurry. In her haste Miss Penniston forgot her earrings. And never returned for them, because her friend, on the pretext that Steven Sarnoff awaited them, lured her to the passageway under the stoop next door and there garroted her.”
“But what had made Laura think that this Sarnoff even existed?” grumbled Kessler.
“From Miss Donovan,” Regan answered. “Miss Penniston had left affairs so much in her friend’s control that in all likelihood she would never have discovered her malfeasance had Mr. McClendon not come along.
“The day she learned of it from him must have been horrible for Miss Penniston. To discover that her friend had been taking advantage of her! Miss Donovan no doubt admitted all and pleaded for mercy — in private. That’s why Miss Penniston was so distraught and her excuses so lame. She wasn’t covering for herself; she was covering for her friend.” Regan’s angry voice filled the room. “And while Miss Penniston was protecting her, her friend was plotting her death in as elaborately cold-blooded a manner as can be imagined.” The Bishop looked around and, seeing nothing but respectful faces, glowed. The end of a funk.
The Fundamentals of Murder (Davey Goldman Series Book 2) Page 29
