Hog Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  But Benedetti felt like talking, so he changed the subject. “You know, my friend,” he said, “I have not always been a supporter of the so-called ‘women’s movement,’ with their attempts to minimize the glorious differences between women and men, but I have recently learned of one accomplishment which I must applaud.

  “On the flight from London to New York, I discovered that instead of silly, insipid little girls, many airline stewardesses are now beautiful, mature women. I met one on this trip (which, by the way, I instructed the airline to charge to you, not knowing which city official is responsible for my expenses)—as I say, I met a stewardess—or rather a ‘flight attendant’ as they prefer to be called—who introduced me to a charming custom called so quaintly, ‘the layover.’ It was a revelation ...”

  Ron was aware the story could go on for hours, so he changed the subject this time. “How much do you know about the case, Maestro?” He was careful to pronounce it the way the professor had taught him: not “MICE-tro,” the way Americans usually said it, but “ma-AYSS-tro.”

  “The case,” the professor said. He said it slowly, as though he were tasting it. “Quite interesting, from what I was able to gather from the New York City papers. I see a possibility that real evil is at work here. I am very happy you and our friend Inspector Fleisher have offered me a chance to deal with this ‘Hog.’ Very happy.” The professor looked off into the storm again.

  After a few seconds, he shook himself, and said, “But, amico, I remind myself that there is another case of which we first must speak.”

  “Another one?”

  “Certainly, the case of cigars you were so kind as to purchase for me. I must reimburse you.”

  Ron would have told him not to mention it, especially in the face of the fact that a box of cigars one way or another didn’t amount to much compared with the Lesotho-Nairobi, Nairobi-London, London-New York and New York-Sparta plane fares the professor had stuck him with, but he was so surprised by the unprecedented prospect of Niccolo Benedetti parting from any money, he forgot to say anything.

  It was all Ron could do to keep his eyes on the road as the professor took put his wallet. Ron half expected a moth to fly out, and didn’t want to miss it. Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw the professor remove a wad of money. “Here you are, amico,” he said pleasantly.

  Ron stuck out his hand, and actually felt money touch it before the professor said, “I trust you will have no trouble negotiating these Moroccan dirhams?”

  Ron laughed at his own gullibility. He should have known.

  “No? Ah, well,” the professor said, hastily folding the money and returning it to his wallet. “I travel so frequently I often forget what currency is valid where. Of course, I would not dream of putting you at an inconvenience. Let us leave it for another time then, agreed?”

  “Agreed, agreed.”

  “Where am I staying, while I am here?” the professor wanted to know.

  “Only you would show up at eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, unannounced, in the middle of a blizzard, and ask that. The city hasn’t had a chance to arrange anything for you, obviously. Therefore, you will stay with me.”

  “Excellent, excellent. That will suit me perfectly, amico.”

  Sure, Ron thought, you don’t have to tip anybody.

  Ron’s house had been a hunting lodge, before the city had grown southward to meet it. It now sat with its back to the railroad tracks and its front to an alternate-route state highway, but the house was surrounded by magnificent old oaks and chestnuts that helped to keep the twentieth century at bay. Inside, it was all rich woods and ornate carvings; they helped Ron escape from the concrete that so often seemed to be closing in on him when he was at work.

  As usual, the professor wanted to go right to work. Benedetti steadfastly refused to dally with women while engaged on a case—a rule, he said, that encouraged him to bring his cases to speedy conclusions. Ron had obtained copies of the police reports covering the events up to the time of the discovery of Leslie Bickell’s body last Wednesday, and the professor sipped at a tumbler of red wine and read them, while Ron laid a fire in the big granite fireplace.

  They finished about the same time. The professor said, “Inspector Fleisher’s disappointment begins to shine through his reports.” He wore a sly smile.

  “You’re reading about the Elleger girl’s boyfriend, young Carlton Muntz? Bright young man.”

  “He is indeed,” the professor said.

  “Yes, indeed. Fleisher had him in for questioning after the first deaths, and young master Muntz not only tells him where to take it, but when Fleisher makes threatening noises about the diaphragm the girl had, Carlton has an answer for that, too.”

  “Yes, I read that with some interest,” Benedetti said. “Muntz points out that since Miss Elleger is several months older than he, and has turned eighteen while he remains seventeen and a minor, the only one who can be charged with a crime is Miss Elleger, who (technically) is guilty of endangering the welfare of a minor. You know, Ronald, the younger generation is no more sexually active than yours or mine, but at least we had the good grace to act as though we were ashamed of it—even if it was only to comfort our parents.

  “Incidentally, I find myself intrigued by the method in the first murder. I presume the police have retained that sign?” When Ron confirmed it, the professor said, “Va bene. I will see it.” He took another sip of wine.

  Ron said nothing as he made a note of Benedetti’s request. Usually, Benedetti took a look at the scene of the crime, then left the physical evidence to the lab, saying, “There is nothing I can do with it.”

  “But none of this”—the professor tapped the reports—“explains what finally moved the city fathers to summon me—at the usual fee for murder?”

  “Yes, Maestro, all the money, plus two hours with the culprit when and if.”

  Benedetti smiled benignly on him. “Excellent, amico. But next time, remember to allow for inflation. Now you must tell me the rest; if I plan to start my inquiries tomorrow, I must be up to date.”

  Ron agreed. “Well, Maestro,” he began, “it’s quite a story ...”

  The afternoon of Wednesday, January 28, had proceeded pretty much according to routine. A horde of detectives assigned to the Hog case, playing Fleisher’s hunch, canvassed the neighborhood Davy Reade had died in and came up with negligible results. No one had seen anything (“Listen, officer, I’m lucky if my eyes are open that time of the morning, you know?”) Veteran detectives, realizing that any person inflicting that slice to the child’s neck would have been literally showered with blood, came pretty much to the opinion that the boy’s death had indeed been an accident.

  After the scene cleared at Leslie Bickell’s apartment, the inspector left another detective team at work, and went home to his wife. Buell filed his story at the Courant, made one more brief stop downtown, then ran to the comforting arms of Diedre Chester. Ron Gentry, having had a good night’s sleep, hung around. He was present when the city detectives turned up the interesting fact that Leslie Bickell’s connection had been one George Ruiz Vasquez, aka Juan Bizarro, aka the Pope of Dope, currently in the hospital after having been beaten up for presumably selling some fifteen doses of too-potent heroin. Miss Bickell’s remains were moved to a low priority on the autopsy list.

  Meanwhile, attempts to find Terry Wilbur (who according to witness Herbert Frank was Miss Bickell’s current boyfriend, and had been present and angry the night of her death) met with no success. Wilbur was a gardener, so he wasn’t working during the winter months, and he was not at his apartment on Henry Street. The police would keep looking.

  Meanwhile, Ron Gentry went to the office of his client, broker Harold Atler. He said, in part, “... so, Mr. Atler, after a quick once over, this is what it looks like. Your grad assistant has, within the last couple of months, started to mainline heroin. Now, normally—”

  “But why?” Atler protested. “I don’t understand!”

/>   “I don’t understand either, Mr. Atler. I don’t think there’s ever been a narcotics case that made sense. Some people have to punish themselves.

  “Anyway, up until now, she’d had no problem with the money part of it—her father is a rich man, and he sent her a generous allowance.

  “But this month, for whatever reason, her allowance was late. I checked her records; the money should have been here over a week ago. For all we know, it was on that mail truck that was buried in the avalanche in the Berkshires.

  “So Leslie’s money ran out; and her dope ran out. And dope is the basic reality of a junkie’s life. She had to have it. Then you came along with the five thousand dollars in cash, and Leslie took you for Santa Claus. With that, she could take care of her immediate needs and have some as a cushion for a rainy day.

  “She probably took the money and connected right away, then dashed home as fast as she could. Then a couple of unfortunate things happened: she left the stuff on or near the sink with the water still running, it fell in, and went away; and the dope itself was a little too strong—OD strong.”

  Atler was inestimably relieved. Five thousand dollars could be replaced; the evidence of his carelessness with the money was restricted to Gentry, the police, and himself, none of whom would be likely to spread it around. It was a shame, though, that the girl could be so foolish. She’d been a big help in teaching the course, too. Well he’d learned a lesson for his five thousand dollars. The green-suited vipers at the office would never have a chance like this again, you could be certain.

  He sighed, and was philosophical. “It’s ironic, eh, Gentry? Leslie took the money for a bad purpose, and it literally went down the drain.” He shook his head.

  “No, sir,” Ron told him, “on the bathroom floor. The plastic bag clogged up the sink.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Atler wasn’t equipped to deal with interruptions. Ron’s correction threw him, for a second.

  Finally, he said, “You’re, eh, sure this is what happened?”

  Ron scratched his head. “Well, I’m not mathematically certain. Any digging I do now, though, will only tend to bring up what you want quiet—like if I talk to her supplier.”

  “Then you think I should stop here?”

  “I think so. The money’s gone beyond recovery. I won’t bill you, I didn’t do anything. Yes, I think it’s a safe bet that this business won’t go any farther.”

  When Buell Tatham got the next note, though, all bets were off.

  It reached the Courant late in the morning of Thursday, January 29. As he had been instructed, Buell called the police as soon as he recognized the blue-ink block printing that none of the thousands (yes, thousands—some postmarked as far away as Miami) of bogus Hog notes had been able to duplicate for sheer nondescriptness.

  Fleisher came running, trailing a fingerprint man in his wake. No fingerprints on the envelope but Buell’s, not even the mailman’s—they all wore gloves in weather like this. No fingerprints on the letter itself at all. The usually self-effacing Sergeant Shaughnessy felt himself moved to comment. “Shit,” he said.

  But the message itself was different. Hog had outdone himself. He had written:

  TATHAM—

  TELL THE POLICE I GOT TWO IN ONE DAY THIS TIME, THOUGH I COUNT IT AS ONE AND A HALF. THE GIRL STARTED DYING THE FIRST TIME SHE PUT THE NEEDLE IN HER ARM. WHERE DID THE COLLEGE SWEATSHIRT LAND? I DIDN’T NOTICE WHEN SHE THREW IT AWAY. THE LITTLE BOY TOLD ME HE WANTED TO BE LIKE SUPERMAN. TOO BAD HE WASN’T INVULNERABLE, ISN’T IT? MAYBE I’LL GO FOR THREE NEXT TIME. TILL THEN.

  —HOG

  After he read that note, Fleisher was furious. For the first time in thirty years, he wished he was back on traffic detail so he could hand out tickets and make the whole city as miserable as he was.

  “All right!” he said at last. “All right. Back to square one. Tails on everybody—Muntz, the pimple-faced kid, Gentry, everybody. And tell the mayor I’m coming to see him.”

  The mayor, at the moment, was in conference. The mayor was young, handsome, had a pretty wife, a cute kid, and had never been caught doing it to his secretary, the dog, or the public. He liked being mayor, but he would have liked to be a senator even more.

  So the mayor was in conference with Harry Lanagan, who could deliver a large chunk of downstate delegates. The mayor had to see him now. It wasn’t that the mayor wasn’t conscientious—he wanted to catch Hog with all his heart and soul—the voters remember things like that. But Hog would still be there this afternoon, and Lanagan was going back to New York, and from there on a Sentimental Journey to the Auld Sod, which he had last seen in 1911, when he was two years old. He could see Fleisher later.

  The mayor’s secretary had the looks and personality of a yeast cake. The mayor hired her so he wouldn’t be tempted. But she was competent, and fiercely loyal. So, when she relayed her boss’s instructions to the inspector, and he gave her a poisonous look, and got black in the face with rage, she was ready to give her all in a shouting match.

  But when the inspector bit his tongue to get himself under control, then said calmly, “Very well, I’ll wait,” she didn’t know what to do. She certainly couldn’t bodily remove two big policemen and a fair-sized reporter. She couldn’t call the police. She wasn’t about to interrupt the conference that could make her the secretary to a United States senator. So she let them wait.

  Fleisher, Shaughnessy and Tatham used the time to discuss the case.

  “You know something,” Shaughnessy said, “this time is the first time the note came the next day. Ain’t that right?”

  “Hey,” Buell said. “That is something.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the inspector groused. “The first two times, Hog struck in the late afternoon, evening, after the pickups at the dropboxes had all been made. This time, he was finished with both murders by eight o’clock in the morning.”

  Shaughnessy went back to his policy of effacing himself. There was silence in the mayor’s anteroom. It lasted until Dr. Dmitri walked in.

  Dmitri had been freed from a very busy morning down at the morgue by the urgency of what he had to tell the inspector. He was in a good mood that clashed badly with the gloom of everybody else. Dmitri didn’t care. He’d rather face a dozen angry Fleishers than cut into one more corpse before lunch.

  “They told me you’d be here,” he said to the inspector.

  “What’s on your mind, Dmitri?”

  “I just finished the post-mortem on the Bickell girl.”

  “Yeah. Can’t possibly be proved it wasn’t an accidental overdose, right?”

  “Wrong. Apparently, the girl broke some glass about an hour before she died.”

  “We know that.”

  “Yeah. I found tiny slivers embedded in the skin of her right hand. But that’s not all she broke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When she broke that glass, she gave herself three separate hairline fractures in the bones of her hand. Must have hurt like hell.”

  Fleisher caught on, and was suddenly excited. “So from the needle being in the veins of her left arm, we know—”

  “We know that unless she’s a contortionist with talented toes, it’s extremely unlikely Leslie Bickell administered her own shot. Impossible, in fact. We’ve got a provable homicide for you, now.”

  “About time, for crysake,” Fleisher said. “Now we can get a little action.” He started stalking toward the door of the mayor’s office, paused to brush the horrified secretary aside, and burst in.

  “That’s where he called me from,” Ron told the professor. “The mayor’s office. Of course, the mayor couldn’t chew Fleisher out with the downstate money man there, so Fleisher had him. And us.”

  The professor grinned. “And us indeed. You are happy to be in on the case at last, are you not?”

  “Of course, Maestro.”

  “There is no ‘of course’ about it. Of all my pupils, you are the only one who has not taken what he h
as learned and turned it to his own profit at the expense of his fellow beings. You are an interesting and complicated man, Ronald.”

  “I’m a struggling private eye,” Ron said. “Nothing special.”

  “A struggling private eye who could grab wealth or power in politics or commerce! You must either be complicated, or a fool, and you are no fool, amico. Niccolo Benedetti does not have truck with fools.

  “Ma, va bene, we have business to discuss. Tomorrow, I wish first to see the physical evidence. They have it all?”

  Ron nodded. “They even have the ice in a deep freeze.”

  “Good. I will also begin seeing witnesses. I am especially eager to see this Terry Wilbur.”

  “As soon as Fleisher finds out, Maestro,” Ron promised.

  “Of course. The police have consulted an alienist in this case?”

  “A Dr. Higgins.”

  “Very well, tomorrow I will also confer with him.”

  “Her,” Ron corrected.

  Benedetti showed as much surprise at this as he ever did at anything. “So even our friend the inspector must bow before the might of the political women, eh?” He stroked his chin as though he had a beard there. “Is she competent?”

  “She’s enthusiastic,” Ron said, “and Fleisher doesn’t make it easy. Take his opinion of shrinks, divide by his opinion of working women, and that’s his opinion of a woman shrink. She’s young, and acts cool, but I think she feels the pressure. She keeps dropping things when I see her in the library.”

  The professor smiled. “You amaze me, Ronald. I don’t remember you as one who spends time with books when there is a killer to be caught.”

  “I’ve been chasing him through the library, Maestro. I took one little piece of the picture the cops haven’t had time for, that’s all.”

  The professor lit up one of the expensive cigars from the airport, folding the flame from the wooden match away from the tip and puffing gently until it glowed redly through the aromatic smoke. “Have you found anything?”