AHMM, July-August 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Department: THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  AMRJ M AMR N'DF SRUER ZBMXBFQ TNSF JUC BU OF MR IURFZB UCBTME, M AFXXJ XUOOFX UL BIF XNPI, MRQ FRQFQ ZBMAVFQ NRBU ZTNAF.

  —Y. S. PIFZBFXBUR

  Cipher Answer: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

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  Fiction: A PRIVATE BATTLE by Marianne Wilski Strong

  * * * *

  Joel Spector

  * * * *

  Detective Martin Wyla, son of a Polish immigrant and a detective on the Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, police force for almost twenty years, had seen teenagers stabbed over nurtured gang insults and men shot over soulless drug deals. These murders took their cold, calculating, and chemical reactions from the present.

  But then came the murder of Peter Zimmer.

  Wyla remembered the shock when he'd first seen Zimmer's body.

  At the morgue, Dr. Lander, a robust, round-faced man, led Wyla to a gurney on which lay a figure covered with a white sheet.

  Lander pulled down the sheet, talking while he did so. “Name's Zimmer. Peter Zimmer. Look at the skin."

  "God,” Wyla said. “He's steel gray. Even his lips. Except for the scar.” The scar ran through Zimmer's eyebrow three times. An “N” scar. “The guy looks like some iceman who froze half a million years ago."

  "Well,” Lander said, “he's old all right. I'd say eighty-something, edging to ninety. Notice anything else?"

  Wyla ran his eyes up and down the thin gray body. The skin lay on the bones like a rag that had crinkled as it lay drying on a radiator. “Looks like this guy starved to death."

  "Well, he didn't. Though I doubt that he had much of an appetite over the last several weeks."

  "So what killed him?"

  "He's been poisoned."

  "Poisoned?"

  "He's been poisoned,” Lander repeated. “Damn lucky one of the docs at the hospital had experience with thallium salts, or we all might have written off Zimmer's death as cause unknown."

  "Thallium salts?"

  "Heavy metal inorganic poison. Pretty deadly stuff. Colorless, odorless, dissolves pretty readily in liquid. Fifteen micrograms is enough to kill somebody."

  "Where would somebody get thallium salts?"

  Lander shrugged. “Wouldn't be easy. It's used in some labs for various chemical analyses. I'd say your job is to find out where the poison came from. Look for somebody with access to it on a continual basis. This guy's been ingesting the stuff for a while, probably a little at a time over several weeks. Then a day or two ago, somebody gave him another dose. A final dose that sent him off."

  Wyla's common sense rebelled. “The guy's been ingesting poison for weeks? Wouldn't he have known he was being poisoned?"

  "Not necessarily. If the thallium was given to him in small doses, it probably gave only a slightly off taste to whatever he ate or drank. He might have felt a bit nauseated, then recovered, then felt nauseated for longer periods. The poison would build up in his system, until he ingested enough to make him really sick. By the time he realized how sick he was, it was too late. Somebody had given him the fatal dose."

  "You have the name of his closest relative?"

  "Yeah, a brother.” Lander leaned over and consulted some notes lying on a table. “Michael Zimmer. Lives down in Lansdale, near Philly."

  The name Zimmer sounded vaguely familiar to Wyla, but he couldn't place it. He could ask his Uncle Marty. Marty knew everybody in town. Wyla thought again. He could just have Sergeant Reilly do some research. Less painful than visiting Marty. That way he could dodge a while longer looking at Marty's World War II pictures again or listening to Marty's story about bombs pulverizing Monte Cassino. Still, he owed Marty a visit.

  He jerked his mind back to the body on the gurney. “Did the brother bring Zimmer into the hospital or did the hospital call the brother?"

  Lander pulled the sheet up over the corpse. “Docs say the brother brought Zimmer in yesterday late afternoon. Zimmer was weak and in pain. Pretty considerable pain. He died late last night. A younger person might have lasted longer or even survived once he wasn't ingesting any more thallium. Zimmer was too old, and besides, his arteries were closing up again. He probably wouldn't have lasted a full year even if he hadn't been poisoned."

  Wyla looked at the shrouded body. “Why poison a ninety-year-old with a bad heart? What the hell was the hurry that the poisoner couldn't wait a couple of months for the guy to die naturally?"

  Lander chuckled. “Somebody sure wanted to kill him before he died."

  Wyla frowned. “Why choose a slow poisoning?"

  "Maybe you've got to look for somebody with some bills coming due in a while. That is, if Zimmer had any money to leave. Anyway, find the thallium and you find the killer."

  Wyla nodded. “I'll start with the brother."

  * * * *

  Michael Zimmer sat across from Detective Wyla's desk at police headquarters after a short and simple ceremony at the city's River Cemetery. Wyla studied Zimmer's eyes. They looked like windows that hadn't been washed for a while. If Michael Zimmer wasn't exactly rejoicing that his brother was dead, he wasn't exactly grieving either. Nor had he benefited from his brother's death, as least as far as Wyla could see, Zimmer having died with few worldly goods. What Wyla couldn't see, at least not right away, was exactly what Michael Zimmer was feeling.

  Wyla consulted his notes. “You brought your brother to the hospital at about four yesterday afternoon. That right?"

  "Yes. He called me earlier and said he was very sick. I drove up from Lansdale immediately."

  "Doctors say that he was dying by the time you got him to the hospital. Did he tell you anything when you arrived at his house?"

  Michael shook his head. “No. Just that he felt very ill. Of course, I knew Peter had heart trouble.” Zimmer swept a hand over his chin. The chin jutted out like the front end of a road grader. “But someone giving him poison? I forget what the doctors called it."

  "Thallium."

  "Yes, that's it."

  "Had you seen much of your brother over the last several years?” Wyla judged Michael to be only a few years younger than his brother, about the same height, though with a bit more black in the iron gray hair than Peter had had.

  "No. I saw him rarely. My brother and I were not close, and I've been in California with my older daughter the last few weeks."

  Wyla made a note to check out Michael's claim to have been in California, though it was very likely true. Too easily checked to lie about. “Had you and your brother had a falling out of some sort?"

  The answer came quickly enough. “Nothing dramatic. Just the usual way siblings drift away from each other. You live separate lives in separate places, retire in separate places."

  "Where had your brother lived in his adult life?"

  "Well, here in Wilkes-Barre where we were born until he was about twenty or so. He moved to L.A. at one point. Was there I guess most of his life. He drifted around. Different places. I don't know them all."

  "When did he return to Wilkes-Barre?"

  Zimmer hesitated. “Maybe about a year ago. Rented that small coal company house we grew up in. I guess he made a life for himself here. I don't know."

  "He have any friends here?"

  "I don't know."

  Wyla picked up a pen from his desk, examined it, and put it down. He couldn't tell yet what Zimmer didn't know and what he didn't want to tell. He let silence flow around Zimmer, watching for nervous tics—fingers smoothing hair, tongue licking lips, swallowing. Nothing. Zimmer was a rock. Wyla zeroed in on the first thing Zimmer had brushed over.

  "What did your brother do in L.A.?"

  "I know he worked in the meat business for a while. Processin
g plant. I couldn't tell you which one."

  "Anything else?"

  "Well, he might have sold cars.” Zimmer looked annoyed. “Maybe some machinery work. I didn't keep a record."

  "When was that?"

  "Late thirties."

  "And after that?"

  Zimmer blinked. “I lost touch with him after the war. He didn't always inform me where he was or what he was doing. I led a family life. He didn't."

  About seventy years of possible motives for murder, Wyla thought. It wouldn't be easy. “Have you any idea of who might have wanted him dead?"

  "No. Look, I'm sorry he died. But I'm not anxious to know who killed him. Whatever Peter did was in the past. A hell of a thing to have it surface after so many years. Just as well to have it buried with him."

  Wyla remembered what Lander had said: Somebody wanted to kill him before he died. “Sometimes,” he said, “the past doesn't stay buried. Did your brother ever do anything that might have brought somebody's vendetta down on him?"

  Michael didn't respond.

  Wyla waited.

  "Might be a number of activities that gave somebody cause to kill Peter."

  "What is it your brother did that you do know about?"

  Michael lifted his brows. “I didn't say I knew anything."

  Wyla smiled his gentle, knowing smile. “No, you didn't. But you do."

  Michael waved a hand. “My brother was a criminal. But I don't know any details. Didn't want to know. I don't buy the ‘I'm my brother's keeper’ business. All I know is Peter got in some kind of trouble in L.A. Got shot and almost lost an eye."

  Wyla nodded. “He had a scar."

  "Yeah. A scar. Anyway, he took off when he got out of the hospital. As I said, I don't know exactly what kind of trouble he got into there."

  "How long ago was the trouble in L.A.?"

  Michael thought. “Maybe sixty some years ago. Peter disappeared after that."

  A flash went off in Wyla's head, and the picture of Uncle Marty, returning from World War II with an arm missing, materialized out of the light. “Sixty or so years ago. A lot of young men were drafted then. World War II. Was Peter?"

  "The trouble was before the war."

  Wyla smiled. He'd learned in his rookie days that sometimes people revealed more by what they didn't say than by what they did say. “All right,” he said. “I'll check with the L.A. police. One more question. You said that whatever Peter did, it was a hell of a thing to have it surface now. Any particular reason?"

  Zimmer nodded. “Yes. My granddaughter is getting married next week. The family doesn't need any trouble now."

  Wyla remembered why the name Zimmer was familiar. “She's marrying Senator McCarey, isn't she? It's been in the papers. And McCarey is likely to run for governor next year."

  "Yes. Frankly, if Peter's death has something to do with his activities in L.A., I doubt any of us will ever know the details. Anyway, it's all over now. I'd like all this kept as quiet as possible."

  "I'll do what I can.” Wyla considered the bait. Zimmer was dangling a fly to distract from the juicy worm wriggling elsewhere. “One or two more questions. Why did your brother return to Wilkes-Barre?"

  Zimmer shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe because he was old and sick and he had the old family house here."

  "What time did he call to tell you he was sick?"

  "Sometime in the afternoon."

  "You said you hadn't seen him much?"

  "That's right. I have my own life."

  Wyla frowned. He often felt that way about visiting Marty. He didn't appreciate the irony of Zimmer's making him feel guilty. “So why did he call you then?"

  Zimmer said nothing for a moment. “I don't know. I suppose ... it's because I'm the only family he has."

  "I see. How long will you be in Wilkes-Barre?"

  "I'm leaving in a day or two. As soon as I dispose of my brother's belongings. Car, things like that."

  Wyla checked his notes for an address and phone number. “I'll contact you in Lansdale if I need to. And, uh, I'm sorry about your brother."

  Zimmer stared at Wyla a moment, then rose and left.

  Relief, Detective Wyla thought. Well, Zimmer wouldn't be the first sibling glad to be rid of a troublesome brother.

  Wyla checked his watch. He could grab some supper at the diner, then get over to the assisted living home and get this month's visit over with. He didn't know what time Marty went to bed. That was probably something he should know.

  Before he left the station, Wyla tossed the job of checking records to his assistant, Detective Reilly, who was good with records and computers.

  At the diner, Wyla pushed around his stuffed cabbages and considered Michael Zimmer. Michael knew more about his brother than he'd been willing to tell. Why keep his brother's activities hidden? Shame? A powerful enough motive, but likely to dissolve in the face of murder. Maybe guilt. Would Michael have killed an inconvenient brother to avoid scandal? To save a granddaughter's very advantageous marriage? Not likely. Even if some muckraking reporter dug up Peter's past, the damage would be minimal. So why did Zimmer feel threatened or, at least, feel that his granddaughter's marriage was threatened by possible scandalous stories about his brother?

  Wyla decided to canvas the neighbors tomorrow while Reilly tapped computer keys.

  He finished his dinner, delayed leaving by rereading the newspaper, then drove over to the assisted living home. He spent forty minutes looking at pictures of Marty in Pisa and at Monte Cassino. When an aide came to help put Marty to bed at eight, Wyla left. Relief and a touch of guilt.

  * * * *

  Late the next morning, Detective Reilly gave Wyla a report. In detail. Wyla had no doubt that Reilly had checked every record in the nation and maybe even beyond.

  "Someday, I'll show you how to access the records with Boolean logic,” Reilly said, his green eyes shining, slender fingers tapping as if a keyboard lay beneath them.

  Wyla wondered if in an earlier century, Reilly would have been a pianist. “Yeah, someday,” he said. “What's Boolean? Never mind. What did you find?"

  "I'd say Zimmer was one lucky bastard to live as long as he did. He was mixed up with some pretty dangerous people, maybe even with elements of the Las Vegas crime syndicate. LAPD says he stole money from some syndicate guys. Stupid thing to do. He ended up in a parking lot with a bullet in his chest and one that grazed his skull, just over his eyebrow. Recovered, then skipped town. That was right before the war. About 1938. He disappeared all right. There's no police record of him from ‘38 to about ‘48. He showed up in L.A. again in the fifties. A few convictions, off and on for thirty years: robbery, some drug running, a touch of extortion. Nothing for a while after that. Small-time crime in a couple of cities. Then he turns up here in Wilkes-Barre. I checked the banks. He had some money."

  "How much?"

  "Not much. About three thousand. He bought a used car re-cently too."

  "So we have a record of crime, with maybe one or more of his colleagues after him for something, missing years during World War II, and a recent return to Wilkes-Barre."

  "That's about it."

  "Not much help."

  Reilly looked up, grinning. “But the computer yielded something interesting.” He waited.

  Wyla noticed that Reilly's red hair turned a little redder as it always did, at least to Wyla, when computers were involved. “What did the damn computer cough up?"

  "Zimmer isn't the guy's full name."

  "Oh?"

  "It's Zimmerovsky. With a y. Russian."

  Wyla grinned this time. “Yeah? Well, my full name isn't Wyla. It was Wylakowski before my father shortened it. Not too incriminating, unless you're telling me Zimmer was a member of the Russian mafia."

  Reilly sighed. His hair faded back to reddish brown. “Couldn't find any evidence of that. Anyway, the guy was too old for that. If anything, he was good old American-bred mafia."

  "Did you check army records?"


  "I checked all service records. Nothing. No Zimmer or Zimmerovsky."

  Wyla rested his square jaw on his big left hand. “Wonder where he went.” Missing years. A hole in Zimmer's life.

  "So,” Reilly said. “The best we have so far is one of his, let's say, former colleagues, might have killed him. In-house murder, so to speak."

  Wyla shook his head. “Not satisfying. First of all, why now? Your record hunt turned up no recent crimes. I could even buy the idea of an old mafia vendetta if Zimmer had been shot or stabbed or strung up on some tree in a park somewhere. Short and sweet. But thallium salts? Over weeks? I don't think so. Hit men don't usually keep thallium around."

  "Who does?"

  "Yeah. Where's the poison? A continuous supply. Lander says that's the key."

  They both kept silent for a moment.

  Wyla started when Reilly cleared his throat. Reilly was looking at him the way some nurses looked at patients who hadn't eaten their meals. “I looked up thallium salts on the Internet."

  "Thallium salts were once used in rat poisoning,” Wyla said. “Hospitals and universities have it on hand for various reasons. I used an encyclopedia,” Wyla said. “Ever hear of those? Got everything from chemistry to history."

  Reilly looked hurt. “I found all that out too. I thought the rat poisoning was a possibility, but computer says thallium hasn't been used in rat poisoning for decades now."

  Wyla meant to give Reilly a nice gentle smile, but his mind had started processing information. “A decades-old poison. Kept where? In somebody's old cellar? Until the right time? An old score to settle?” He thought of Uncle Marty's stories of World War II. Plenty of material for vengeance out of that war, like somebody discovering that Zimmer had been an officer in a concentration camp. Wyla shook his head. Zimmer was Russian, not German. Still, missing years that coincided with the war, a war with more human evil and tragedy than most, if not all, the wars of the last thousand years put together. Where had Zimmer spent the war?

  Reilly cleared his throat again.