Benedetti smiled, and scratched his hand. “Because,” he almost purred, “unlike some, he cares more about catching the Hog than he does about his reputation. He didn’t want his men to know their fellow officers were spying on them, on occasion, because if Hog were someone connected with the case, he would be tipped off, eh? And also, to keep up the morale of the officers. You have ruined this part of the investigation.
“But you must have something to tell your public, eh? Very well, tell them this: Today is Wednesday, the fourth of February. Niccolo Benedetti promises—at the risk of his own hard-earned reputation, that this malefattore, this Hog who wallows in human blood, will be in the custody of Inspector Fleisher within a week. Tell that to your public!”
Reporters have thick skins. The professor’s insults were a small price to pay for his promise. They rushed to the phones to call the story in.
Buell Tatham, though, having no immediate deadline, ambled up to talk to the professor and Fleisher. “That was quite a speech, Professor,” he said. “People are usually afraid to tell us off like that.”
“It was not a blanket indictment,” Benedetti smiled. “The word ‘fool’ was intended only for those to whom it applies.”
Buell smiled. “I’ll be sure to mention that in my column tomorrow. And don’t forget Diedre’s, tonight at 7:30.” They assured him they wouldn’t forget, and Buell ambled off. Ron watched him go, thinking how much he dreaded the coming evening. He went to talk to Janet.
Fleisher, meanwhile, was grinning in foolish gratitude, and shaking the professor’s hand. But he was bewildered. “How did you know what I was up to, Professor?”
Benedetti shrugged. “It’s what I would have done,” he said.
“You mean you didn’t know ... ?”
“Of course I knew. I knew you, therefore, I knew.”
Ron, accompanied by Janet, rejoined them.
“Professor,” she said, “did you mean that? About catching Hog within a week?”
“Niccolo Benedetti always means it when he stakes his reputation,” the professor pronounced.
“How do we go about it, Maestro?” Ron asked.
“Amico, I haven’t the first idea.”
FOURTEEN
SO BUELL TATHAM’S FIANCéE was beautiful, and she could cook, too. Big deal, Janet thought, how many instruments can she play? She suppressed a giggle, and told herself firmly, no more champagne. Diedre Chester did know how to throw a get-together, even in the midst of a murder investigation.
Murder. The word sobered Janet. For the first time in weeks, she had gone an hour without thinking about Hog. There had been a tacit agreement to avoid the subject at table, and Diedre (who was practically incandescent) had been careful to steer conversation to other topics.
They talked about movies. Professor Benedetti, who had decided to come after all, turned out to be an avid fan of American westerns. Buell criticized them for not being true to life.
“What difference does that make?” Benedetti had replied. “They are not historical documents, they are entertainment. Do you believe the motion pictures produced in my native country show an accurate picture of the life of a roman gladiator? A motion picture is an illusion, possible only because of a defect in our perception; why should we ask more of it than diversion, eh? When real life offers so many more profound illusions.” It was interesting.
Now, Janet could see, the conversation was being steered once again, this time toward the case that had brought them together. It was the professor who was doing the steering.
It didn’t take much. Diedre Chester’s eyes got brighter as the subject approached, and whatever she wanted, Buell wanted. Even Ron, while not looking happy, was accepting the inevitable. He looked like he was readying himself for something unpleasant.
Finally, Diedre asked straight out, “Are you going to catch him, Professor?”
The old man shrugged. “Five questions must be answered before we can capture Hog,” he said. He ticked them off on bony fingers. “One. We must learn the significance of that missing scrap of metal, the one cut from the clamp that held the sign. Two. We must learn why of all the murders, those of the Bickell girl and Jastrow were made to appear self-inflicted instead of truly accidental. Three—and I cannot stress this enough—we must find Terry Wilbur. My intuition tells me he is the key to this case. Four, which we can answer, I am hopeful, when Wilbur is found. Why were those books defaced? Five. We must decide which, if any, of my young colleagues’ researches, has relevance to the investigation. It is a shame Inspector Fleisher is not here to hear of them.” He sighed. “Illusions. Politicians believe that a policeman must be miserable to be at work.”
Diedre said, “What researches? What have you been up to, Ron?”
Buell wore the ghost of a smile. “Ron has been making vague references and asking cryptic questions of various people in the case.”
“You get around,” Ron said.
“I had a talk with Barbara Elleger. After that, all it took was a little checking up with the others. But I’m damned if I know what you’re driving at.”
Ron looked at him, appraisingly. Janet, who knew all about Ron’s cryptic questions, was exasperated. “But what did you find out?” she blurted. “What’s this all about?”
Ron looked at her. The professor said, “It is about pigs, Dr. Higgins.”
“Pigs?” Diedre was incredulous, halfway to laughter.
“Pigs,” Ron said. “As Janet can tell you, I spent all my time while the professor was on his way here in the library on the campus. I probably now know as much about pigs as anyone in this city.”
“But why?” Diedre wanted to know.
“Because I knew the only thing we knew about the killer was that he signed his notes ‘HOG.’ I mean, why that? It must mean something to him, right?”
Buell was skeptical. “Isn’t that a little farfetched, Ron old boy?”
Diedre made a playful slap at him. “Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” she said. “Just be happy he doesn’t sign his notes ‘GRITS.’ ”
There was laughter. Ron said, “No, I agree, it is farfetched, but what could be more outlandish than the whole set-up of this case in the first place, with Hog’s miracle getaways and snide notes?
“So I gave myself a cram course in pigs. Hogs. In all their glory, and their many, many applications.”
Buell asked the professor what he thought of this.
“I applaud it,” the old man said. “All knowledge is of value.”
Ron smiled. “It was fascinating, actually. Pigs are an oppressed minority in the animal kingdom. They take a lot of unjustified abuse, especially considering then-importance to man—actually and linguistically. They turn up everywhere.”
“What do you mean, unjustified?” Diedre asked. “I always thought pigs were sloppy, messy animals.”
“Not by nature, Diedre. Hogs don’t sweat, you know, and their skin is very sensitive. That’s why they wallow, to keep cool, and to protect themselves from the sun.
“Hogs are very commercial animals,” Ron went on. “No animal turns feed to protein as fast as a pig. And it’s not only meat they’re good for, either. It’s a cliché in the industry that they make use of everything but the squeal—they tan the skin for leather, make soap and cosmetics from the fat, fertilizer from the bones, brushes from the bristles.
“Biologically (I have learned) the hog is very similar to man. Pigskin is used for temporary grafts to humans in severe burn cases. Their eyes are like a man’s. Their digestive system is the closest to man’s of any nonprimate. Cannibals, who’ve eaten both, say human flesh tastes like pork. A cannibal term for human flesh translates as ‘long pig.’ ”
“I’m glad I didn’t make pork,” Diedre said.
“Thanks,” Ron said. “That leads to my next point. “Now, everybody knows some religions—Judaism and Islam, particularly—forbid their adherents to eat pork. This was smart—improperly cooked pork can give trichinosis, and that was prob
ably why the ancients of those religions banned it. But at least part of the reason (according to the books I found) was superstition, based on certain peculiarities of the hog’s anatomy. In the first place, unlike cows, sheep, goats, and other animals, but like man, a pig has just one stomach. And in the second place, pigs walk on cloven hooves.
“Now, given observations like this, and given the sufferings the ancients saw of those who did eat the flesh of pigs, and did come down with trichinosis, it’s not hard to understand how they would come to fear the pig as the earthly guise of devils and demons.”
There was silence for a couple of seconds. They sat around Diedre’s coffee table like sitters at a séance. Janet found herself murmuring, “It would fit. It would fit the psychosis.”
“There are echoes of it even into the New Testament,” Ron went on. “Buell, doesn’t Jesus save two demoniacs, cast out their demons into the bodies of swine?”
“Well, yes, that much is right, Ron,” he admitted. “But—” he turned to the professor. “You don’t honestly think that this maniac, however crazy he is, actually thinks he’s Beelzebub himself, do you?”
The professor was grave. “What I think is of no consequence. But I must say Hog has good credentials as a demon. The murder of children and feeble old men; the gloating afterward; and the suffering among all those the tragedy touches; these are evil enough for any devil I have heard of.”
Buell was about to protest, but Dr. Higgins and science were there to cut him off. “It makes sense psychologically, Buell. Our killer is getting his gratification from a feeling of power. It’s a new experience for him; he revels in it. It’s a classic psychosis to delude yourself into thinking you are God. If Hog is religious, or at least familiar with religious dogma, he could easily prefer to be the devil. As God, he ends their lives; as Satan, he has the added power of tormenting their souls afterward.”
Janet, the woman, listening to Dr. Higgins hold forth, felt just a little appalled at what she heard herself saying. This wasn’t exactly after-dinner chitchat.
The effect of her comments rippled around the table.
“That’s something,” Ron said softly.
“Again, I must say ‘brava,’ ” the professor said. “It may well be.”
Buell was testy. “All right, that’s enough of this for one night. I know all we have in common is the case, but have a little consideration for the hostess, all right?”
“Oh, Buell—” Diedre began, but Ron said, “I’m sorry. It just sort of snowballed. And anyway, in and of itself, it’s no help at all.”
Buell was relaxing, shrugging it off. “I’m sorry I snapped. But it did seem kind of irrelevant.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I thought, too, at first. But, on the not-altogether-ridiculous assumption that Hog just might be someone we’ve met in connection with the case, I took my new-found expertise, and tried to find applications to the people involved. I succeeded a lot better than I ever hoped I would.”
Diedre gasped. “You mean you found someone?”
Ron took a sip of his champagne. It had gone flat; he made a face. “I found everyone,” he said.
FIFTEEN
RON POLISHED HIS GLASSES. “Or at least almost everyone.” Ron looked around at faces. They all, except the professor of course, had oddly uniform expressions of puzzlement. Ron knew better than to try to make anything important of it; the professor often said that controlled by a skillful liar, the human face was a deadly weapon.
Not unnaturally, they wanted to know what he was talking about.
“Well, as I said before, hogs—pigs—or something about them—turns up practically everywhere. With a little imagination you can tie in almost anybody. That’s why I’m not so sure my little theory is worth anything. Though it has been interesting.”
Diedre was impatient. “Well? Don’t just sit there, tell us about it.”
Ron leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped together. “All right,” he said, “let’s take it crime by crime.
“It took me a while to get on to this. Hog’s note about the first incident threw me off—it talked about Barbara Elleger’s diaphragm. But she lived. Hog’s first two victims were Carol Salinski and Beth Ling. Both girls were born in the United States, but one girl’s ancestors came from Poland, and the other’s came from China. Poland and China.
“It rang a bell when I first read about it, along with the story of the first note. And then, when I started my research, there it was, right in the encyclopedia, with a color picture. A Poland-China is a hog; a breed originated in Ohio that’s known for its great weight-gaining speed. Don’t ask me where the name comes in.”
Janet was dubious. “That sounds a little farfetched.”
Ron grinned. “That’s what I said, at first. But it got me started. For old Stanley Watson, I admit, it was nowhere near a direct connection; the only thing that seemed to fit was that back in high school, Watson had been quite a football player. Scored four touchdowns, once in one game.”
“The old pigskin, Ron?” Buell was smiling. “Hell, if you call that a connection, you’ve connected up half the male population of New York State.”
Ron nodded. “Including myself—I was a nearsighted I-formation fullback; carried the ball six times in four seasons. So we throw Watson’s football career out because it’s too general to be any help.
“That left me, after two murders, with one good tie-in, and one pretty weak one.
“The third and fourth incidents—accounting for the fourth and fifth murders, happened on the same night. Leslie Bickell was first. Follow me here. She was killed with heroin she bought with money she stole that night. The money was in the care of Harold Atler, but it was really the property of the members of that business class that Atler taught. That money was made through speculation in coffee beans and meat by-products. Guess what kind of meat by-products?”
Diedre guessed. “Pigs feet?”
Everyone but the professor laughed. The old man smiled indulgently.
“You’re close,” Ron told her. “It was mostly pork intestine.”
“You mean chitlins,” Buell told him.
“That’s what they’re called when people eat them,” Ron conceded. “But these particular ones were earmarked for the pet food and pharmaceutical industries.”
“That’s an interesting combination,” Janet said.
“I thought so, too,” Ron said, “until I found out they make a drug called Heperin out of pork intestine. It’s used in the treatment of phlebitis—breaks up blood clots or something.
“This was the best connection of all. This wasn’t a pun, or a figurative connection—this was real, snorting pigs that actually lived. Or at least part of them. And it connected the Bickell girl and Atler at the same time.
“This was the same murder that gave us Herbie Frank. I worried about him, until I found out he worked summers (as a clerk) in a foundry.”
Janet said, “Oh!” then, embarrassed, said, “I remember you mentioned that.” She scratched her head. “But I still don’t get it.”
“Metal comes to a foundry in the form of ingots,” Ron said. “And my blue-collar source tells me these ingots—no matter what the metal is—are called pigs. As in ‘pig iron.’ ”
It was probably the longest Benedetti had ever gone without talking. He broke his silence at this point to say, “Let us not forget, amico, that this was also the case that gave us Terry Wilbur.”
“Yes, I’m interested in this,” Buell drawled. “How does Wilbur fit in? Not another football player, is he?”
“No,” Ron said. “I don’t know if he ever played football. Wilbur ties in through those children’s books he had in his room. The ones he told Mrs. Zucchio he had for his ‘project,’ whatever it was. You know about that?”
Diedre and Buell both nodded.
“Okay, then you’re aware of how some of those books were defaced, and of how some of them were downright savaged. About the biggest book Wil
bur had there, and one of the few that wasn’t damaged at all, was Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. Are you familiar with that book?”
Diedre said, “Of course, I’ve had it since I was a little girl. I read it to Ricky.”
“Well, Diedre, what’s it about?” Ron demanded.
“It’s about Charlotte, a spider, who can spell out words in her web and how—oh ...”
“And how,” Ron picked up for her, “she saves the family pig, whose name is Wilbur, from being killed and eaten.”
Buell wanted to know if Ron had mentioned this to the police.
“No, I haven’t. This could all be coincidence, you know. And not as wild a coincidence as it might seem.”
“For those other things, I agree with you,” the reporter said. “But the fact that he had a book featuring a pig with an identical name ...”
“And the fact that he destroyed all those other books ...” Diedre turned to Janet. “That’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“I can’t figure it out,” Ron said. “We know from his school record he wasn’t much of a reader.”
“What does the professor think?” Diedre wanted to know.
“I think the time has come to share this with the police,” the old man said. “Perhaps they would take it more seriously if I told them, eh? We will talk it over later.”
Ron was glad to hear it. It was bad enough looking Buell, Diedre, and Janet in the eye and saying these things as though he thought he meant them. Telling it to Fleisher would be murder.
He went on. The worst was yet to come. “Now we come to the murder of little Davy Reade—”
“That was horrible,” Diedre said, as though anyone needed to be told.
Ron ignored her. “Davy Reade’s father sells motorcycles,” Ron said. “A big part of his business is selling bikes to some of the police departments out in California where he lives.”
“And policemen are called pigs!” Diedre said happily.
Ron shook his head. “You’re getting ahead of us, Diedre. No. The point in this case is that close to a hundred percent of the motorcycle cops in this country—and a goodly portion of the motorcycle gangs, too—ride the same kind of bike—the Harley-Davidson Electra-Glide. It’s one hell of a motorcycle, with an engine as powerful as some cars, and a price almost as big. But it will do one hundred thirty miles an hour, if you’re crazy enough to ride it that fast. Hardly anybody ever calls it by the brand name though; it’s a chopper—or a Hog.
Hog Murders Page 14
