“Who’s lead on your sister’s case?”
“Detective by the name of Michael Boyle,” I said.
“What precinct?”
“Nineteenth. What difference does it make?”
Slater ignored my question and followed it up with one of his own. “He got a suspect?”
“No.”
“You get a look at your sister’s file?”
When I nodded he slid the file across the table and pushed he chair back.
“I’ll give you thirty minutes. I’ll want to know every similarity you find between the two files. Got it?”
I nodded and he left the room. There were no witnesses in Ethel Bloomberg’s murder. No nosy neighbors. Other than the multiple stab wounds, there was nothing telling about the reports. The pictures of the crime scene were a different story.
I’d had a hard time looking at my sister’s pictures, but I didn’t expect to have a problem with pictures of a dead Ethel Bloomberg. I was wrong. Like Helen, Ethel Bloomberg’s naked body had been laid out on its back in the bedroom.
I looked away from the picture, took several deep breaths, and willed the queasiness away. When the light-headed feeling eased a bit I looked back at the photographs. Like with Helen, the killer had directed most of his attention to the girl’s breasts and genitalia. He’d been a little more brutal perhaps than with Helen. The cuts appeared deeper and there were deep slits under each nipple.
I picked up the next picture, a close up of the girl, and gasped. My hands began to shake and I dropped the photo onto the table. It landed upside down and I snatched it back up so I could take a second look. Ethel Bloomberg was a dead ringer for Helen, or vice versa.
Ethel’s cheeks were a little fuller than Helen’s, her nose a little more pointed, but they could have been twins. Same lips. Same hair. Same eyes. It was uncanny. There was no longer any doubt in my mind; the butcher who murdered Helen had also murdered Ethel Bloomberg.
While I fought to come to grips with what I was looking at, the door to the room slammed open and Slater burst into the room. His eyes were wild and his lips were pulled back into a snarl.
He sprang around the table. “You son-of-a-bitch!”
I tried to jump up but the chair was heavy and didn’t slide behind me. Slater was on me in an instant. He swung his fist and smashed it into the side of my head. I collapsed into the chair. I raised my hands in front of my face trying to protect my glasses, but he was fast and he wasn’t about to give me time to defend myself.
He slapped my hands away, grabbed me by the collar, and dragged me to my feet. The chair flew over behind me and clattered to the floor as he shoved me up against the wall.
“What the fuck you trying to pull, Locke?”
I made a half-hearted effort to push him away, but for a small man he was quick and strong. He stood his place and backhanded me across the mouth. Echoes of thunder rumbled through my head. I tasted blood, and when I ran my tongue over my teeth one of the molars moved slightly. That’s when my knees buckled and I slid down the wall toward the floor. Slater stopped my fall by thrusting his shoulder against my chest and grinding me into the wall.
He pulled away and slapped my forehead with an open palm. “Are you some kind of a pervert or what?”
The sour stench of garlic and stale cigars lingering on his breath made me gag. Afraid of what he’d do if I threw up on him, I forced down a mouthful of bile.
“I told you. All I’m trying to do is find out who killed my sister.” I spoke through clenched teeth and my words sounded far away. I wondered who was speaking for me.
“Did you think I wouldn’t check you out?” Slater stepped back away from me, and from the look in his eyes I figured he wanted to take another swing at me. “I had a nice talk with Detective Boyle. He tells me there’s not much doubt you killed your sister.”
“I didn’t do it and he knows it. My sister’s neighbor saw the murderer and will swear it wasn’t me. Besides, why would I kill my sister?”
“I asked Boyle the very same question,” Slater said. “He said he found out today your sister wrote up a new will. Left you a fortune. Is that true?”
“I didn’t know anything about it until two days ago. If I killed my sister why would I come all the way to Boston to talk to you about Ethel Bloomberg’s murder?”
“Maybe you killed both of them.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Where were you when Ethel was killed?”
“I haven’t been to Boston in six years. Haven’t even taken a vacation in three or four years. I can check with the paper and see what I was working on when she was killed. I should be able to give you a time and place breakdown for that day. Do you really believe I’d be here if I wasn’t trying to prove my innocence?”
Instead of answering Slater bent over and picked up the chair. He nodded toward it. “Sit down.”
I sat and watched while he gathered up the report and slid everything back into the folder. When he finished he looked up. “This neighbor of your sister’s who you say can clear you, what’s her name?”
“Ila Quinn.”
“You have her phone number?”
I pulled my notebook from my pocket, rifled through it until I found her number and read it off to him.
Slater picked up the file and stepped away from the table. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
I took a handkerchief from my pocket, dabbed my lip, and winced. I wondered if I’d made things worse for myself by not being honest with Slater. Of course there was a good chance if I’d told him I was the chief suspect, he wouldn’t have let me look at the file and I wouldn’t have learned about the resemblance between Helen and Ethel. I was still questioning my judgment ten minutes later when Slater came back into the room.
“Did you get hold of Ila?” I asked.
He sat back down opposite me. “She swears the man she saw coming from your sister’s apartment wasn’t you.”
“Do you believe her?”
“She’s talkative, but I don’t think she’s crazy. Makes me wonder why Boyle is convinced you killed your sister.”
“The only thing I can figure is that I’m convenient. I’m guilty, case solved.”
“We have a few people around here like that. But I’m in a bit of a dilemma. I don’t know who to believe.”
I folded my arms, sat back in the chair and decided not to say anything. I figured it was up to him now. Everything depended on his own instincts.
Slater pointed at the report. “You find anything interesting?”
“Couple of things,” I said. “If you put a picture of Ethel and Helen side by side, I’m betting you couldn’t tell the difference. Both women were laid out on their backs like they were sleeping. This guy, whoever he is, is a freak.”
Slater opened the file and flipped to the pictures in the back. He shuffled through them, nodding his head as he did so. “I forgot what a looker she was. You got a picture of your sister?”
“Not with me. But I was struck by the fact they both look a little bit like Greta Garbo.”
He reached for one of the pictures, held it under the light, and grunted. “Let’s say I buy into your theory. Why’d he kill ‘em?”
“You’re the copper, I hoped you might have some ideas. I’m just trying to find out who killed Helen. It’ll be a plus if I can get Boyle to lay off me.”
Slater pulled a cigar and lighter from his pocket, bit the tip off the cigar, and lit it. I took it as an invitation and reached for my own smokes. He kept the lighter burning while I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, then he reached across the table and lit it.
“I’ve read about a few cases of multiple murderers,” Slater said.
“You mean like Jack the Ripper?” I asked.
“There have been a couple here in the States too. Guy by the name of Carl Panzram claimed to have killed 21 people, and then there’s the cannibal, Albert Fish.”
“Read about him,” I said. “Ate a little gir
l didn’t he?”
Slater took the cigar from his mouth and blew on the tip until it glowed. “Case like this might get me a promotion.”
I added my butt to the dirty coffee cup. “What happens next?”
“You go home and leave the investigation to me.”
Slater didn’t care whether I was guilty or not. If he helped me it would be for his good, not mine. Of course, I didn’t give a flying shit about Slater’s quest for a promotion. Still, having him on my side couldn’t hurt matters.
“What about Boyle?”
“Stay away from him. I don’t think he likes you.”
“I could have told you that. The son-of-a-bitch is trying to railroad me.”
Slater shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. If I were you I’d get myself a good lawyer.”
“You think I killed my sister?”
Slater took a stick of gum from his pocket, tore off the wrapper, and tucked the gum into his mouth. “Doesn’t matter what I believe. What matters is that you’ve convinced me the same man who killed Ethel Bloomberg killed your sister. If that’s you, I’ll help send you to the chair. In the meantime, I’ll walk you out. My wife’s expecting me home for dinner.
CHAPTER NINE
I was standing on the front porch of the Rutledge house ten minutes before seven. It was nothing like I remembered. The door and window frames of the red-brick house were in desperate need of a paint job. The shaggy grass and shrubbery surrounding the house needed a trimming. Even the glider swing sitting along the back wall of the porch under the picture window and the white wooden table placed next to it looked neglected. The sight of the swing brought a smile to my face. I’d spent hours holding hands with Mary and stealing kisses late at night while her parents were fast asleep upstairs in their bedroom.
Mary’s mother answered my knock. She’d put on weight and seemed to have aged more than the fifteen years that had passed since I’d last seen her. Her smile was forced and I could see she wasn’t quite sure how to react to me.
The last time I saw her I was twenty-two years old. I stood on the same porch and she’d opened the same door. I was drunk, and I threw up all over the front of her dress. Mary’s father sent me home with a firm warning not to return. It was the last time I saw Mary until Helen’s funeral.
I removed my hat and bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Rutledge. Mary invited me over. I hope it’s not a problem.”
She looked relieved when she realized I was sober and she stepped aside.
“Won’t you come in, James? It’s been a long time.”
I hesitated. “I’d like to apologize first. For the last time I visited.”
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”
“Yes, it is necessary,” a male voice called out from across the room. Looking past her mother I saw Mary standing next to her father. He was sitting in a wheelchair just outside of the dining room. My memories were of a short, powerful man, well groomed, with a full head of hair and a strong presence. Now his face was drawn and pale, and the wispy line of white hair above each of his ears looked like it hadn’t seen a comb in weeks. Despite our differences, it saddened me to see him like this.
“My apologies to you too sir,” I said.
“Mary’s the one you should have apologized to,” he said. “A long time ago.”
My face burned and Mary placed a hand on her father’s arm. “Daddy, you promised not to bring up the past.”
He made a little harrumph sound in the back of his throat, reached down, spun the wheels on his chair, and rolled into the dining room.
Mary ran up to me, planted a brief peck on my cheek, and took my arm while her mother went off to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on her dinner.
The furniture was pretty much as I remembered it, although a new Philco console radio sat between two worn arm chairs across from the sofa.
“You’ll have to forgive daddy, since he’s been sick he’s gotten a little crotchety.”
“He’s right you know,” I said, as she led me through the living room. “I owe you the biggest apology.”
“Yes you do, but now that you’ve said it let’s put it behind us.” She looked at me and a mischievous gleam flashed in her eyes. “I don’t say that because I’ve forgiven you. I’m saying it because it’s going to take all the groveling you’re capable of to convince daddy you’re sorry. If you can survive daddy, you deserve my forgiveness.”
I slowed and considered heading back out the door. Mary must have read my mind because she grabbed my arm again and started pulling me toward the dining room and her father.
We ate at the same table I’d eaten at the last time I’d visited with Mary and her parents. The ornate walnut table and matching buffet still smelled of lemon oil and still dominated the room. I remembered Mary telling me once that the furniture had belonged to her grandparents and her mother refused to get rid of it despite her father’s complaints about how crowded the room was. The chair at the head of the table had been removed to make room for her father’s wheelchair, and he was sitting there with a frown on his face when we entered.
He ignored me throughout dinner, which consisted of Boston baked beans, pork chops and freshly baked bread for the main course, and rice pudding for dessert. He didn’t even glance in my direction until Mary and her mother began clearing the table.
Once they were both out of the room he locked his eyes on mine. “If I’d lived the rest of my life without seeing you again, I’d have been quite happy.”
I tugged at my shirt collar. “I don’t blame you.”
“I won’t let you hurt her again.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said.
Mary floated back into the room and her father backed his chair away from the table and rolled over to the buffet. Opening the side door, he withdrew a small humidor, two snifters, and a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. While I watched, he fought to balance his trove in his lap. I started to rise to help, but Mary cleared her throat. When I looked her way she gave her head a quick shake indicating I should stay put.
I bowed to Mary’s judgment and remained seated while her father got everything arranged to his liking and carried them over to the table. He made a production of taking all of the items out of his lap and setting them on the table. When he’d finished he opened the wooden box and tilted it toward me.
“Cigar?” he asked, taking one for himself.
“No thanks.” I didn’t care much for cigars, but I couldn’t move my eyes or my thoughts away from the booze sitting next to the humidor. My hands began to tremble and I took them off the table and held them in my lap. When I finally tore my eyes off the bottle, I looked around and realized Mary’s father was staring at me.
“Are you sure? They’re Cuban. You won’t find a smoother tobacco.” A sliver of a smile broke across his face as he took a small, dachshund shaped cutter from his watch pocket and clipped the tip of his cigar. He struck a match against the side of the box and when he had the cigar going he added, “How about a drink. To old times and forgiveness.”
Without waiting for my reply he clamped the cigar between his teeth and reached for the bottle.
“I quit drinking,” I said.
He picked up the bottle and filled both snifters half-full. He then pushed one of the glasses toward me. “One drink won’t hurt will it?”
It was a question I’d been asking myself. I stared at the amber liquid, licked my lips, and held my hands in my lap.
“I think I’ll pass.”
Mary’s father nodded. He pushed himself from the table and headed back to the buffet where he picked up a heavy brass ashtray which he carried back to the table. Setting the ashtray next to the glass he’d poured for me, he rested his cigar in it and picked up his own glass.
“You can smoke if you’d like.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “When did you quit?”
I lit a cigarette. “The day I found out about Helen.”
“I’m sorry
we couldn’t make her funeral. We always liked Helen.”
“Mrs. Rutledge sent a nice letter.”
“I suppose this whole thing has been stressful for you,” Mr. Rutledge said.
“Yes sir.” My cigarette tasted bitter and I reached across the table and stubbed it out, fighting the urge to pick up the glass of ambrosia waiting nearby.
“It’s been my experience that men who drink tend to drink more when things get rough. How long do you think it will be before you hit the bottle again?”
There was a rustle behind me and a whisper of footsteps across the wood floor. “Daddy, you promised to behave.” Mary stopped next to my chair, reached out, and moved the glass out of my reach.
“This man is not good for you. He wasn’t good for you fifteen years ago, and he’s not good for you today. I won’t have you getting involved with him again.”
“Daddy, I’m thirty-six years old and I’m quite capable of choosing who I want to be involved with. Besides, Jim and I are not involved. I invited him to dinner and offered him a place to spend the night.”
Her father’s eyes brimmed with hurt, or maybe it was anger. It was obvious he wasn’t used to having his daughter reprimand him. When he realized I was watching he looked down and turned his face away from me. “I want you gone first thing tomorrow morning. In the future you are not welcome in my house.”
“I’ll be gone before breakfast.” I didn’t blame him. My past was coming back to bite me more and more often lately. I started to reach for the glass, but I saw a smile forming on his face and stopped myself. He’d been baiting me and if Mary hadn’t been there I might have given in to the temptation.
She must have realized it too. Placing her hands on the table she leaned toward her father. “In that case I’ll be leaving in the morning too.”
I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. “I’ll leave now and go to a hotel.”
Without looking away from her father she said, “No you won’t.”
“I don’t want to stand between you and your father.”
Mary shifted her gaze to the glass of whiskey on the table. Reaching out she grabbed the drink and downed it in two gulps, shivering as the liquor hit her stomach.
The Storm Killer Page 7
