“It seems they left in his car together and made their way down a dark street for a romantic rendezvous that turned bad. They found Mr. Johnson Sunday morning in the driver’s seat of his car. His pants were down around his ankles, and the front of his shirt and underwear stained with his…you know…I ran some tests on his stain alongside the stain on Mrs. Haywood’s panties. …It’s the same guy, all right. On further investigation of the body, I would say just when he was experiencing a sexual climax that his partner shot him in the head and cleaned most of the mess with the panties. And, well…you both know the rest of the story. Whoever did this is the same man who is after Mrs. Haywood…I’d bet on it.”
“Any fingerprints?” Goebel asks.
“None…we dusted everything – the car, the body, everything. …No prints. Your guy is extraordinarily careful.”
Benson bends down, taking a closer look at the bullet hole in Donald Johnson’s temple.
“What caliber gun would you say killed him?”
“At such close range, no question about it,” says Dodson. “It’s from a .38. …I’d bet on it.”
***
The Velvet Hammer is much larger inside than its façade leads one to believe. Goebel and Benson stand in the doorway until their eyes adjust to the darkness. The club has no windows.
For a weekday afternoon, it is surprising how much business they are doing. The dance floor is empty, but there are several customers at the jukebox and even more gathered around the pool tables. For all intents and purposes, it looks like any other dance club in town, only there are no signs of even one female.
Goebel and Benson step up to the bar. There is a lone bartender on duty – a handsome, young black man wearing a muscle shirt, with the muscles to go with it.
“May I help you two officers?” asks the bartender.
Goebel spreads his arms out at his sides and looks himself up and down.
“Is it that noticeable?”
“Noticeable…” laughs the bartender, “Does Jack Webb know you’re wearing his clothes? You two guys look like the poster for Dragnet. If you’re here to ask me about what happened last week to Donald, you’re too late. I already told that other cop everything I know.”
“Well, we’d like to hear it again, if you don’t mind.” Benson says. “First off, what’s your name?”
“Josh…Josh Rogers…but all my friends call me Tink…short for Tinkerbell.” He starts to laugh.
“Well…Tink…” Goebel says. “Without sounding too much like Jack Webb, could you please give us just the facts?”
“Well, it’s like I told that other cop, Don was a regular customer. He was here last Saturday night. I remember serving him…a scotch and soda man…”
“Was he with anybody? I mean, did you see him leave with anybody?”
Tink laughs again, “Man, you don’t know what it’s like here on a Saturday night? Wall to wall…butts and balls! I didn’t notice anything…nobody did, man.”
“Did you know the deceased?” Goebel asks.
“Kind of. …All the brothers know one another…like a minority within a minority. You dig?”
“Yeah…I dig,” Goebel says. “Did you and he ever…get together?”
“You mean…were Don and I ever lovers?” The smile leaves Tink’s face. “Oh, I get it…you think, I’m gay…he’s gay…I’m black…he’s black…so we must have gotten it on. Jeez…talk about your stereotyping. You guys are something else, you know that?”
“Don’t give us a hard time,” Goebel says, “I’m uncomfortable enough just being here. Just answer the question.”
“No, man. …I ain’t ever been with him. Like I said, we were just acquaintances. Besides, I’m not his type, anyway.”
“Oh, and what was his type?” Benson asks.
“White guys,” Tink says, his laughing smile returns to his face. “Don was the original Little Eva. He was into white guys – tall, short, old, young, fat, skinny – Don liked them all…as long as they was white.”
“I see,” Benson says, taking a snapshot of Richard Haywood from his coat pocket, “Ever seen this guy?”
Tink takes the picture and examines it closely. “Yeah, man. I’ve seen this dude here before. …No, wait…” He takes another look. “Maybe not…I’m not sure. Hell…I don’t know. Cute-looking white boys…turn them upside down, and they all look alike. Ya know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t know what you mean,” Benson says. “We thank you for your time. If we have any other questions, you’ll be hearing from us.”
Goebel and Benson start for the door.
“Drop in anytime,” laughs Tink. “I’ll be here…I’m always here. I live here, man. Say, why don’t you two do yourselves a favor and send those suits out to be dry cleaned and burned?”
They still hear his laughter as they stand outside the Velvet Hammer.
“So now what?” Benson asks.
“I’m more convinced than before,” Goebel says. “We need to start tailing Mr. Richard Haywood.
“Come on, let’s get the hell out of here. I don’t want anybody to see me standing in front of this place…especially with you.”
CHAPTER FOUR
You Remember Uncle Jerry
Chez Michelle is by far the most respected and expensive five-star French restaurant in town, and her parents’ favorite. Helen made all the arrangements, despite her mother’s constant onslaught of suggestions. She reserved one of the smaller, private dining rooms, selected the menu, and sent invitations to all her parents’ closest and dearest friends. It is her parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary, and she wants everything perfect for them, so Helen labors over every single detail.
Night of the party, Richard is running late. Helen looks at her watch; it is seven thirty. She can’t hold the festivities up any longer so she gives the maître d’ the go-ahead to begin serving. Helen excuses herself and heads for the parking lot to look for Richard.
When she reaches the front door, Richard comes storming in. Under his arm is a large package giftwrapped in silver and gold, with a large bow on top.
“Sorry I’m late.” Richard is huffing and puffing.
“Here, give me the present,” says Helen. “I’ll take care of it. Go in and say hi to everyone before they start eating.”
“Need to go to the john first!” He runs off into another direction.
Back at the party, they are just beginning to serve the main course. At the entrance of the room, there is a long table set up for gifts. Helen places the package on it. She turns to see her father standing next to her.
“I just wanted to let you know how happy you’ve made us, tonight, Princess.”
“It’s the least I can do. You and Mom have done so much for me all my life.” She kisses his cheek. “Why don’t you go sit down, Dad, before your food gets cold?”
He is just about to turn around, when an idea strikes him. “Say, Helen, why don’t you and I go to the pistol range this weekend and get you used to firing that .38 pistol I gave you?”
“Gee, Dad…I don’t know…” Helen’s voice is hesitant.
“What do you mean you don’t know? Why, what’s the matter?”
“Well, Richard thinks a gun is a bad idea and…”
“He does, does he? Well, we’ll just see about that!”
He looks around the room for Richard.
“Please, Dad…not now…not here…not tonight…for me, please.”
There is such pleading in her voice he finds it hard to say no to her.
“All right…for you, but I’m going to have to talk to that boy.” He turns and makes his way to the head table and sits down next to his wife.
There is another table next to the gift table. On it is a framed picture of her parents dancing at their wedding. It is an old black and white photo, her mother in a long white gown and her father in black tie and tails. So young and beautiful – they look so happy.
Also on the table, her mother laid out all the old
family photo albums for all to see.
Newer-looking albums are mostly pictures of Helen – first day at school, birthdays, Christmases, high school graduation – every major event of her youth. Older books are of her parents wedding and honeymoon. As well, there are photos of their first house, parties, and vacation trips with old friends – most of them now sitting in the same room, looking much older than their now fading images in the photo albums.
Helen flips through one of the older books. Her heart leaps from her body and she holds her breath when she comes to an old black and white photo of her parents on a skiing trip. There are high mountains of ice and snow in the far distance behind them. Her father and mother are on skis, smiling at the camera. But, there, standing between her parents is a man – he is on skis also, and he is wearing a ski mask over his face – a black ski mask with light-colored, make-believe eyebrows and lips.
Helen turns to see her parents standing at their table. They are giving a speech to all the other guests. Her mind can’t hear what they are saying. She hears her name mentioned and everyone in the room begins to applaud. It all sounds faraway and muffled, as if being underwater. She can’t take it any longer. She rushes out of the room and into the lady’s room, runs cold water, and splashes her face.
When she comes back out, Richard is waiting for her.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Oh, yeah, I guess it’s all the excitement.”
“Well, don’t scare everyone like that, especially me.”
She starts back to the party.
“I love you,” says Richard.
She turns and smiles, “I love you, too.”
Later, after everyone has eaten, most of the guests walk about the room, cocktails in hand, talking and laughing and looking at the old photos.
Helen motions to her mother to come to the photo table. She points to the ski trip photo and the man in the ski mask.
“Who’s that?”
Her mother takes her time and eyes it carefully.
“Oh, that…it was years ago…way before you were born…a skiing holiday in the Swiss Alps. That’s your father, there…and that’s me…and the guy in the middle with that ridiculous mask on is your Uncle Jerry…your father’s brother.”
Helen’s parents have not heard all the gruesome details of the night of her attack, so the sight of the now-familiar mask doesn’t send terror into her mother’s heart as it does in hers.
“I believe his wife took this picture…your Aunt Eleanor. You probably don’t remember much about either one of them. Your Uncle Jerry died when you were about thirteen years old. Aunt Eleanor still lives in Tannersville, fifty miles north of here. We haven’t kept in touch over the last few years. …Christmas cards…that’s about it. The poor woman’s lost most of her marbles over the years.
“They used to come and visit every summer when you were little. Do you remember? They had two sons. …Now let me think…what were their names? Oh, yes…Nicholas and Victor. They were a couple of years older than you. Oh, how you hated those boys,” she laughs.
“But what did Uncle Jerry look like? Are there any other pictures of him?” Helen asks.
Her mother thumbs through all the photo albums.
“That’s strange. I could swear we had some pictures of Jerry somewhere, but I don’t see any. There are a few empty spaces; maybe they fell out. Whatever, he wasn’t much, not a memorable character, anyway.”
Her mother puts down the book and turns. “Margaret! So glad you made it!” She is off to another part of the room.
Helen’s first thought is to call Goebel and Benson and tell them about her findings. But what could she say? Her attacker is in fact a ghost.
She decides to not say anything to anyone. She would research it further on her own. She is becoming more and more reliant on her own judgment and abilities, and less and less on others – especially the police.
She quickly turns when she hears loud talking from the other end of the room – Richard and her father are arguing. Helen runs to them.
“With all due respect, Tom, but I think it’s none of your business,” says Richard.
“None of my business…? Your daughter’s your daughter for the rest of your life! Haven’t you ever heard that?” Tom bellows.
“I’m sorry, Tom, but I think a gun is just too dangerous for Helen to be carrying around. She’s my wife and my responsibility.”
Helen’s father is fuming. “You can’t be with her all the time, but a gun can. Next time could be worse; she may wind up dead! With a gun, she at least has a fighting chance!”
“She’s my wife, there will be no gun, and that’s my final word!” Richard turns and looks Helen in the eye. “I’m going home. …Are you coming?”
Helen looks at her father. “Dad, I’m so sorry…”
Richard starts to walk away.
Helen’s father grabs her, pulls her in close, and whispers to her, “Don’t be upset. We’re family…we can disagree without it being the end of the world. I like the boy, even though I know he’s wrong…and you tell him so for me. But he’s your husband…so go.”
“Thanks, Dad. I love you.” She kisses his cheek and runs after Richard.
She catches up with him just outside the front door of the restaurant. He turns in surprise, “You’re coming? Aren’t you going to stay with your folks?”
“Richard…my father thinks you’re wrong about the gun. I think you’re wrong about it too, and I wish you’d reconsider. But you’re my husband and I love you, Richard.”
Richard’s eyes have a look of relief in them, as if some intense weight just lifted from him. Maybe Angela is right; he just needs some time to heal. He takes her in his arms. They kiss.
“Where are you parked?” he whispers. “I’ll walk you.”
“Over there,” she smiles. “Come on…I’ll race you home.”
***
Tailing Richard Haywood slowly becomes routine, fruitless, boring, and seemingly a waste of time. He spends most of his days – and much of the nights – at the office, on the phone or computer. His lunch meetings are just that – long, drawn-out get-togethers with other professionals like himself. His business trips are all legit. In the short time of Goebel and Benson’s surveillance, he went to Montreal twice and once to Atlanta.
“I think we’re wasting our time,” says Benson, sitting behind the steering wheel of their unmarked car. “All this guy does is work, work, and more work…what a dope!”
“Yeah, not smart, like us,” Goebel laughs. “I tell you, Jimmy, this guy is dirty. …I just know it. …I can taste it.”
“Better step on it, or we’ll lose him,” Benson says.
It is Friday afternoon. Richard is driving toward the airport for what appears as another weekend business trip. As they pass downtown, Richard suddenly takes the next turn off the highway.
“Well, what do we have here? It looks like we’re not going to the airport after all. I think I smell a rat!”
They follow as close and as safely possible down winding streets, till they come to a row of new two-story townhomes. Richard parks in the middle of the block. Goebel and Benson pull to the curb some spaces behind. Richard gets out, takes his overnight bag out of the trunk, dashes up the stairs of one of the townhomes, and rings the doorbell. A moment later, a tall, slender redhead opens the door. She flies into his arms, and the two kiss long and hard before going inside.
“Bingo!” yells Goebel. “I told you the guy was dirty! Now we’ve got our motive!”
At first, Benson doesn’t say anything. He is browsing through a folder resting on his lap. He runs his finger over a long list of names and addresses before finding what he is looking for.
“Francis Crawly…works for the same company. …Her office is right next to his. She does much the same job he does…been with the company for three years…”
“Who cares?” says Goebel. “We’ve got our motive. In this state, divorce means splitting everything f
ifty-fifty. But if your wife dies…you keep one hundred percent; it all fits into place. Let’s stick around for a while…maybe we can get some photos.”
“That leaves us with a big decision to make,” says Benson. “Cheating on your wife is a motive, but it’s not evidence. We got nothing that’ll stick.”
“So, what’s your point?” Goebel asks.
“I’m saying…if we run him in for questioning at this point, he’ll know we’re on to him, and we may never get anything on him. On the other hand, it may throw him into a tailspin, and he may confess. If we wait any longer, he may still get to his wife. This way, even if he doesn’t confess…we’ve got him off guard and on the run. …He’s bound to screw up.”
“You think we can pressure him into talking?”
“If anyone can…we can.”
Goebel thinks about it for a moment, “Okay…let’s call him in.” He looks out at the townhouse. “Hell, they’ll be in there for hours doing the horizontal mambo. Let’s go get something to eat and then come back.”
“I know a place on Montgomery with a great salad bar,” says Benson.
“Salad bar…what’s with you lately? You’ve been talking to my wife again?”
***
It has been a long busy workday for Helen and Carol. There is a conflict between payment slips and claim amounts in the computer. They need to pull each payment slip, compare them to ones in the computer, make changes, and refile them. By five o’clock, the problem is only half resolved.
“I hate to ask you this,” says Helen,” but I’m afraid we need to stay late tonight, till we get this fixed.”
“Gee…Don’s not going to like this,” says Carol. “My car is in the shop so I told him he needed to pick me up. I’ll call him. What time do you think we’ll finish?”
“That’s no problem,” says Helen. “Call him and tell him I’ll take you home.”
Carol phones her husband, and after a long explanation of how to warm up leftovers from the previous night, she hangs up and returns to her filing.
Carol is a hard worker and has moved up fast within the company. She is young, bright – eight years Helen’s junior – somewhat round and voluptuous, with dishwater blond hair that is close to being brown.
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