Silence. ... Until the phone was picked up again. "On Rush Street. 224. Anything else?"
"No."
"Making progress?"
"Maybe."
"Anything you can tell me?"
"Not yet."
"OK. You're the detective."
"Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
Click and click.
With no extra people to add complications to the plot, Big Bob Zapolska could be certain of the following information:
Bateman Hall was Terbrugghen's building.
Tommie Victor had been killed in Terbrugghen's storage area.
Beth Ogden was Terbrugghen's "friend."
On the night of her murder, Beth was expecting Terbrugghen.
The ghost glow was caused by a powerful light, possibly the kind of stage illumination Terbrugghen would use.
Besides Teddy and Dr. Calder, the other person who knew that Z was investigating the Odgen murder was Terbrugghen.
That was ... Z counted ... six Terbrugghen's. Four more than necessary to alert any down-at-the-heels P.I.
Z knew he had no actual proof the director was the murderer. To be honest, he didn't have the evidence to win a small claims case against the man. Was certainly not ready to plead before Judge Judy!
Fortunately, it was truth, not proof, that mattered at this stage of the game. Give Big Bob Zapolska a respectable number of clues leading to the Bateman college director -- and conclusive evidence would follow! (If Z was good at anything it was getting guilty parties to confess their crimes.)
As Big Bob Zapolska saw it, it was just another of his judicious uses of fire before and the Bateman College murders were in the history books!
* * * * *
Chapter 21
Picking up Susan after her night school class, getting her settled at the Inn (a nervously exhausted Susan turning in at 10:00,) Z drove to Terbrugghen's old turn-of-the-century, four story apartment house, the moldering building located several blocks behind the college. After letting himself into the musty-smelling entrance hall, he checked the battered mailboxes before going back outside to see if the lights were on in what had to be the windows of Terbrugghen's third-floor apartment.
No lights.
Not necessarily meaning the director was inside, asleep.
Though a quick check of parked cars along the street turned up Terbrugghen's, brown '68 Fairlane. (The Ford belonging to Terbrugghen came courtesy of the registration in the car's glove compartment.)
Increasingly convinced it was a vintage Ford that had been following Z's Cavalier, Z took the Fairlane to be another indicator that the director was Z's man.
Parked out front, Lucas' car suggesting the director was upstairs asleep, but .....
With all night to accomplish his purpose, Z got back in his own car and parked it a short way down the street to wait until an ultra-safe three A.M.
By that time feeling confident the director had been asleep inside all along, Z picked up his equipment case and jiggered his way inside the "locked-up-for-the-night" entrance hall.
Quickly inside, he soft peddled up the metal-edged rubber-tiled steps that led past two, ten-watt-lighted landings (three apartment doors at each level.)
On the third floor at last (after gobbling some aspirin that he should have taken in preparation for the climb,) a quick flash of the penlight showed the name "Terbrugghen" on a faded card in a bent tin frame, the name tag holder tacked to the center of the right-hand door.
Gloves on, with a minimum of noise, Z finessed Terbrugghen's lock ... listened ... entered ... crept (satchel-hand dimming the penlight's bulb) into all five rooms ........ the director no where to be found.
With the man's car parked outside?
Possibly spirited off by friends? Taken a taxi?
Surely by this time, all the taverns were closed -- certainly the ones within walking distance.
What was clear was that, wherever the director was -- pouring gunk down someone else's chimney?? -- Z would have to "catch" him later.
Ninety percent safe in assuming that, if Terbrugghen wasn't home, he wouldn't be coming home that night, Z began a quick search of the place (taking in as much as he could with a flashlight that did no more than punch small, self-healing holes in the dark.)
Finding nothing but the basics: Terbrugghen's clothing in closets, his toothbrush and shaving kit in the bathroom, one set of dirty dishes on the kitchen table, fresh food in a well-provisioned refrigerator.
Though Bob Zapolska had started out to have a quiet (if somewhat painful) talk with Terbrugghen, Z's backup method was to "get the goods" on the director by making a thorough search of the man's apartment. Something best done by light of day.
Determined to come back tomorrow when the director was at school, Z gave it up for the night.
That was Thursday.
Friday morning had Z listening to Susan's complaints as he drove her to work, all of them boiling down to how tacky her room was at the Happy Hollow Inn.
Dropping her off at her insurance company, he again drove to Terbrugghen's apartment, parking the Cavalier around the corner.
Ambling down the block and into the building as if he belonged there, Z hiked up the stairs to pick the director's lock again (no challenge the second time) Z slipping inside the apartment.
Door closed, Z took a quiet look in every dilapidated fire-sale-decorated room.
No Terbrugghen.
Good.
Next, Z scouted the apartment for other entrances. Didn't find any.
Tried the windows. All locked; none of them overlooking a fire escape. (In the back of Z's mind, he could hear Mr. Rogers encouraging the young viewers of his kiddie show by saying: "Can you say fire trap? I knew you could."
The big bottom line was that the only door Z had to worry about was the front door. No chance of Lucas Terbrugghen jumping out from an unexpected hiding place.
His preparatory work finished, careful to keep from leaving clues that he'd been there, Z started his search with the drawers. After that, switched to cupboards, finding a couple of hundred dollars hidden in a jar in a glassed-in breakfront. (He left the money where it was, of course.)
As he went along -- efficiently, thoroughly, quietly -- everything Z discovered confirmed what he'd already been told about Terbrugghen. He found liquor bottles around the place, for instance -- two, pint bottles of gin still in a paper sack on the kitchen counter, according to the sales slip, three pints recently purchased from the Berbiglia on North Antioch.
Other bottles turned up here and there, some partially filled, some empty.
Gin. Vodka. Whiskey. Scotch. Wine. Beer.
Terbrugghen a man of discriminating taste, drinking nothing but alcohol.
Z came across used tubes of artist's paint and an assortment of small brushes in a bureau drawer -- dovetailing nicely with Calder's notion that Terbrugghen was a set designer. Also tying Terbrugghen to the theater, were jars of actor's makeup plus a collection of wigs in a lower drawer.
Rolled up on a closet shelf was a faded blueprint of Bateman Hall, the diagram arguing strongly that the director himself thought of the "Hall" as "Terbrugghen's building."
Except for the food stains being drier (if possible) on the same dirty dishes Z had seen on the kitchen table the night before, nothing had changed.
And that was that.
This time when Z closed the front door behind him, he pulled out, then placed one of his hairs in a tight spot between the door's leading edge and the doorframe. Invisible to anyone not looking for it, the absence of the hair letting Z know that someone had entered Terbrugghen's apartment after Z's departure.
Through Saturday and Sunday, the hair stayed put, making it a thoroughly unproductive week.
At McDonald's Sunday night (Z taking a break to feed Susan,) he had to listen to her: 1. complain about having to stay at the Inn longer than the "couple" of days Z had promised and 2. make a series of off-color remarks about what Susan was
now calling the Whorehouse Motel.
Not that Z minded.
Particularly, since -- shepherding Susan to night school last Thursday night -- he'd gotten a look at her Maple Woods professor.
A nice man for a geek.
Z and Susan finishing their Big Macs and returning to the motel, Z found that Susan was unhappy about her sleep being disturbed by a parade of unattached -- a better description might be briefly attached -- women cruising the Happy Hollow's halls.
Next morning, after delivering an increasingly sulky Susan to American Insurance, Z returned to his office to call Calder.
No. Calder couldn't remember seeing the director on Friday, but stressed it wasn't likely he would have, since Calder and Terbrugghen taught halfway across the campus from one another.
Nothing gained by that conversation.
Nothing gained by further chitchat with Susan after picking her up after work. Worst of all, Susan increasingly serious about returning to her apartment.
Strange. As Z's apprehension grew at failing to locate the director, Susan's fears seemed to dissipate.
Women.
Taking her to a reduced price, late night movie in an attempt to sweeten her mood, the two of them returned to the inn where the Z/Susan relationship continued to deteriorate. (Even when Susan was mad, of course, she was adorable.) "I actually remember that, before bringing me here," Susan said, flicking her fingers at the greenish wallpaper in the darkly lit hall outside her door, "you called this dump 'romantic'."
"It'd be more romantic if we shared a room," he suggested, not too hopefully.
"Here, just thinking about sex could give you a disease!" Translation. Hands off until you get me out of here.
Women.
By Monday, Susan safely back at work (Z safe from Susan's serrated tongue,) he'd come to the conclusion that, if he didn't wrap up this case, and soon, he'd have to move Susan to new quarters -- even if it cost him $30 a night to put her up in luxurious accommodations. It was either that or have Susan return to her apartment. (Susan was so upset by this time that he didn't dare suggest what he should have thought of in the first place, Z moving into her apartment as the best way to protect her -- Susan now as apt to invite him into her home as into her motel room to share Happy Hollow's piped-in porno.)
By late Monday morning (the strand of his hair at Terbrugghen's still in place,) Z returned to his office to put in another call to Calder.
Finding the doctor in class at that time, Z left his new, Happy Hollow number just in case, Z still in his office when the professor called at five after twelve.
"See Terbrugghen yet?"
"I've asked around this morning -- talked to a couple of people who teach speech in Bateman Hall -- and neither of them has seen Lucas since last Wednesday morning."
Though they talked "small" after that, Z had the information he wanted with Calder's first sentence.
Z checked Terbrugghen's apartment again Monday afternoon -- no change -- Z picking the lock to go inside once more ... because he couldn't think of anything else to do. Of course, found everything as it had been Thursday night.
Z trapping his "telltale hair" back in the door jam, he went down to have another go at Terbrugghen's car ... to discover that not the smallest fraction of an extra mile had registered on the Fairlane's speedometer.
So -- where was the drama instructor-turned-murderer?
On Tuesday morning -- finally! -- Bob Zapolska picked up his daily, coin-dispenser Star in the Inn's front lobby, to find the article he'd been expecting, a short piece on the third page under the headline: "Cloud Over Bateman College."
Starting with a review of the deaths of the janitor and of the secretary, the news item hinted darkly that the school's director had also met a mysterious fate. Reading between the lines, it was apparent that Bateman's administration had known for some time that Terbrugghen was not on campus, but had been trying to cover it up. (To be charitable, college bigwigs had every reason to believe the director would eventually materialize after sobering up from a prodigious drunk.)
If the paper had the story of the director's disappearance, could the police be far behind?
Not too far, Z's four o'clock check on Terbrugghen whereabouts turning up the traditional, yellow plastic "DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE" tape, tacked across Terbrugghen's apartment door.
The hair was gone too. The cops had been inside.
At the office again. Time for another call.
"Detective Ted Newbold," Ted answered pompously.
"Z. What's with the missing college prof?"
"He's missing."
"Anything else?"
"Not my case." Rather like Andy Griffith's Mayberry, Ted's station with just the three detectives -- Ted, Bayliss, and Esser -- everyone knowing everyone's cases. Ted just liked to be coaxed.
"No rumor about when?"
"After Wednesday, is what I heard."
"Any leads on where he went?"
"Nope. Just gone." Conspiratorially, Ted lowered his voice. "But it don't look good." Z knew why. It never looked good when someone vanished without making preparations. Clothes still in the "Dutchman's" closet. And most telling of all, his toothbrush and alcohol disguising mouthwash still where they should be.
Z didn't let on that he knew the Terbrugghen apartment was intact, of course. Knowing about the unaltered state of the director's apartment might lead to nasty questions -- like how Z happened to have found that out.
"Guesses?"
"When a citizen disappears, it's for limited reasons. Wife/girlfriend trouble. Some kind of insurance fraud -- get himself declared dead so his wife can collect on him. The guy goes nuts. Or the guy gets kidnapped. Kidnapped, he's either dead already or he's being held until the family pays, then gets dead."
"Sounds right. He have a wife?" It was often better to play it too dumb than too smart.
"Not that anybody who's been interviewed knows about."
"Big life insurance policy?"
"Don't think so. At least no talk of that around here."
"Anything from a kidnapper?"
"No."
"So ... what do you think?"
"Some funny business goin' on around the college, if you ask me."
"Janitor killed there, too."
"That was a suicide."
"Oh?"
"Powder burns on his hand."
"Right." Z had been on target about the cops kissing off the janitor's death as a suicide.
"Thanks, Ted. Don't know what I'd do without you."
"You better believe it!" Click.
Powder burns on Tommie Victor's hand. That's also what Z had figured.
Suicide?
One shot, yes.
Two shots .....?
For Big Bob Zapolska's money, any self-respecting murderer, wishing to disguise his crime, would have wrapped his dead victim's hand around the gun butt before taking the second shot. While there could be exceptions (and he had told Calder about one) the odds said that getting powder burns on a "suicide's" hand was the best reason for a second shot.
Z hadn't expected to learn anything from Ted about the director's disappearance, checking with Teddy just one of the "shots" he had to take.
Another quick call to Calder didn't help, either. Except to confirm that the Bateman administration had known for several days that the director was missing.
And that "burned" Tuesday.
It was Wednesday that Z woke up with the realization he was back to what was always called -- for some unexplained reason -- square one. Back before square one, actually, square one being his certainty that Lucas Terbrugghen was the murderer.
What Z now had to consider was the possibility that, rather than being the murderer, the director might be the murderer's latest victim.
Lucas Terbrugghen, the victim? But ... what about the clues?
Thinking about clues always put Z in mind of something he'd heard about diagnoses in the medical profession: a timeless piece of advice Med
School teachers routinely passed on to their students.
When hearing hoofbeats, expect horses not zebras.
A common sense admonition also applying to the detective business. Law enforcement clues that seemed to point to the guilty party -- usually did.
But not always.
With Lucas Terbrugghen missing, Z was forced to consider the proposition that the Bateman murders might fall within this "but not always" category. In short, it was time to consider speculations that the folk singer John Denver used to call "far out."
Determined to contemplate the most bizarre of possibilities, Z began with the one piece of solid detective work he'd contributed himself: Beth Ogden's putting on perfume late at night before going out in the dark to freeze to death, "dolling herself up" for her lover still seeming to be the best explanation for the lady's actions on that fateful night.
Find the lover, and you found Ms. Ogden's murderer.
So he'd thought. So he still thought.
The question that now must be considered, was whether or not Ms. Ogden's lover was the school's director, that query leading Z to consider how he'd first discovered the romantic connection between the lady and the drunk. An easy answer: from Dr. Calder. The prof even maintaining that the relationship between the pair was an open secret.
But ... maybe not.
Since Z had been too inactive, of late, to check this juicy bit of gossip with anyone else, he decided to start his review by considering the "fact" of the Ogden-Terbrugghen "romance."
Calder had said that Ogden and Terbrugghen were an item.
On the other hand, Calder could have been mistaken about who the lady's real lover might be ... maybe, because Ms. Ogden was so ashamed of her actual affair she wished everyone to think it was Terbrugghen?
A light came on!
To put it bluntly, could Beth Ogden's lover be ... a female ... the Ogden woman opening her door to a female "friend" as readily as to a "gentleman caller"?
This line of thought, warped though it was, suggested the possibility that the murderer could be a woman!
Of Mice and Murderers Page 23
