A Death in Pilsen (A Snap Malek Mystery)

by Robert Goldsborough

  "Edwina, oh, oh God." His words deteriorated into more sobbing or retching, I couldn't tell which.

  "Charlie, tell me what's wrong! Where are you? Dammit, talk to me!"

  "Home. She's in the living room…living room… knife. Oh Christ!"

  I squeezed the receiver. "Charlie, listen to me! What's going on? Tell me."

  "Edwina's on the sofa…in the living room…there's blood…dead."

  My mouth was so dry I could barely get the words out. "Charlie, listen. Have you called an ambulance?"

  "Too late…too late." More sobbing.

  "Are you absolutely sure she's dead?"

  "Dead. Dead…"

  "Charlie, call an ambulance, and call the police–do you hear me? I'm coming right over. Do you understand?"

  I got a muffled response that might have been a "yes," and hung up.

  "Steve, what's happened? What's going on?" Catherine had put her book down and risen, eyes wide with concern and a hand at her throat.

  "I've got to get over to Charlie's place in Pilsen right away. It sounds like Edwina's been stabbed and maybe killed."

  "Oh, no! Do you…want me to come with you?"

  "No, stay here. I'll try to call you when I get there."

  * * *

  Five minutes later, I was backing our tired gray '39 Ford coupe out of the garage and into the alley. My watch read 7:20 p.m. as I wheeled out into Oak Park's dark, mostly empty streets in the only automobile I had ever owned. We had bought it from a used-car dealer on Madison Street just after I got back from Europe, and I was now teaching Catherine how to drive, only weeks after I had taught myself.

  I drove east, back through the years, to Pilsen, the Chicago neighborhood where I was born and where I spent the first twenty years of my life. Like so many of the residents, we–my parents, my sister, and I–lived in a three-story building that contained about two dozen apartments. Ours, with parlor, dining room, kitchen, three bedrooms, and a rickety wooden back porch, was on the top floor.

  About once every three weeks, my father reminded all of us how lucky we were to live in one of the few three-bedroom flats in the building. At least five of the boys in my grade school class at St. Agnes shared a bedroom with two or more siblings, and Robert Benes slept in the same room with two brothers and two sisters.

  Pilsen was heavily Czech, which is to say Bohemian, although we had some Polish families and a substantial number of Slovaks in the neighborhood as well–the latter a group that my aged grandmother had looked upon with disdain. When, as an eight-year-old, I asked her why she didn't like Slovaks, she merely said, "Because we (meaning people hailing from Bohemia) are better than they are." The way she spoke made it clear that there was nothing more to be said on the subject.

  My father worked his whole adult life as a streetcar motorman. We never had a lot of money, but neither did anyone else in the neighborhood, so I never felt deprived. I hung out with a group of boys my own age, and the worst trouble we ever got into was shoplifting candy from old Mr. Havlicek's corner store at 16th and Laflin. When my parents found out, thanks to a tattletale named Louie Janak, my pal Freddie and I had had to wash the store's windows, inside and out, once a week for two months.

  My father's brother, Uncle Frank, and his wife, Aunt Edna, lived just two blocks from us in a four-room flat over a grocery store–not Mr. Havlicek's. When I was fourteen, my cousin Charlie, their only child, was born. By the time he was two, Aunt Edna, who was a demanding, domineering sort, was bringing him over to our flat and telling my mother that "Maybe Stevie can watch him and play with him." So it was that I got stuck with little Charlie with increasing frequency for the next two or three years and often ended up having to drag him along when I played baseball or football on the vacant lots or in the little park near where we lived.

  As Charlie got older and I moved off into the work world, I, of course, saw less of him. But even the occasional family holiday gatherings were enough for me to see that he was growing into a withdrawn and somewhat unassertive kid who tended to retreat into himself, no doubt because of his imperious mother. This passive, meek nature stayed with him into adulthood, which made me wonder how he could have survived the rigors of the military, although he apparently acquitted himself well as a soldier in the Italian campaign.

  I pulled up in front of the brick three-flat just a few doors from

  18th Street, where Charlie and Edwina lived. There was neither a police cruiser nor an ambulance in front of the building. I pressed the button for Charlie's second-floor apartment and, after a wait of about 30 seconds, got buzzed in. When I reached their landing one flight up, Charlie Malek, twenty-eight and looking older, stood in the doorway, eyes glazed and watery, mouth agape, head shaking almost convulsively.

  "She's…there, Stevie," he said motioning with his head and stepping aside as I entered the living room.

  She was there, all right, sprawled on the lumpy brown sofa, arms spread, hands clenched, and with her flowered green dress hiked up slightly but not obscenely. Her stockinged legs were stiffly straight, and one shoe was off, laying several feet away on the floor. Her eyes and mouth were open, her face frozen in a rictus of terror.

  The reason for it all was a kitchen knife, half-buried in her left breast. A bloodstain had spread so that it covered the entire front of her dress as well as the sofa cushion.

  I sucked in air. "You didn't call an ambulance or the police?"

  Charlie shook his head dumbly. "I could see she was dead, Stevie."

  "Okay, dammit, but you've still got to make the calls, especially to the cops," I barked, kneeling and placing my fingers on her carotid, confirming my cousin's diagnosis. "Is this how you found her?"

  He nodded. "Uh-huh. When I came home tonight after work, I opened the door, and…"

  "Was the door locked?" I asked, moving toward the telephone on a table in the hall.

  Charlie shook his head. "That surprised me. Sometimes she was, uh…out when I got home, but even when she was here, she always kept the door locked."

  "Don't you usually work a lot later than this?" I asked, looking at my watch.

  "Yeah, I do. We were supposed to be working on a new gas line down in Englewood tonight, but the pipe never got delivered by the manufacturer, so our whole crew was sent home."

  I dialed the central police number, telling the voice at the other end that a body had been found at the address in Pilsen, second-floor apartment. When the voice started asking questions, I cradled the receiver.

  "Okay, Charlie, the police'll be here in minutes, and chances are that then you'll be in a whole lot of trouble."

  "But this is how I found her!" he keened, gesturing shakily toward his wife's body.

  "Can you prove it?"

  "Well, no, but…"

  "What about your neighbors? They must have heard something."

  "The first-floor apartment is vacant and the people above us, the Zaceks, are out of town, visiting friends someplace over in Indiana, I think."

  I grimaced. "Convenient. Look, Charlie, unless I'm very wrong, I believe you and Edwina have done your share of quarreling. I've been around the two of you just enough to get that sense. Chances are likely that when your neighbors have been at home, they've heard you, so whatever you do, don't tell the cops that you never spoke a harsh word to each other. They'll quickly find out otherwise."

  Charlie started to retch and I rushed him toward the bathroom, shoved him inside, and closed the door as he began vomiting.

  I called to tell Catherine I was at Charlie's and briefly filled her in, but had to hang up when the doorbell rang. The police had arrived and I buzzed them in.

  I all but dragged an ashen-faced Charlie back out of the bathroom and propelled him to the living room. "Let them in before they knock the damn thing off its hinges," I said sharply.

  He swung the door open to a pair of grim-faced, square-jawed patrolmen who looked capable of anchoring the interior of the Bears' defensive line.

  "Yo
u the one who made the phone call?" one grunted through clenched teeth.

  I had told Charlie to say that he was the caller, and he nodded "yes" while doing a clumsy backward shuffle as they tromped into the room like advancing infantrymen without bayonets. Both of them put on the brakes when they saw Edwina's body.

  "Ambulance's on the way," the tight-lipped one said, although it was clear from his expression that he knew she was beyond earthly help. "What's the story? You live here?"

  Charlie nodded again, wide-eyed and gulping.

  "Name?"

  He stammered his name.

  The cop–his badge read Brady–inclined his head toward the body. "Who's she?"

  "My wife…Edwina…Malek."

  He snarled in my direction. "And who're you?"

  Before I could answer, two medics and a pair of plainclothes detectives burst into the room, suggesting that the patrolmen must have propped open the foyer door downstairs. If anybody else tried had to squeeze into the room, we'd have been in violation of the fire code. The medics went straight to the body while the taller of the two detectives, a curly-haired specimen with a broken nose, huddled with Brady as they both looked in our direction.

  "You?" the detective gruffed at me, obviously expecting a response.

  "I'm his cousin, Steve Malek," I said. "Charlie called me when he found…found her."

  "Why didn't you call us first?" the detective growled at Charlie.

  My cousin went through a shrugging motion and shook his head.

  "All right," he sighed, pulling out a notebook and flashing his badge. "My name's Prentiss, detective bureau. This is Hodge," he said, indicating his partner, a balding, porky guy with ruddy cheeks and a permanent frown who also flashed his badge.

  As this was going on, the medics had knelt beside Edwina's body. One looked up at Prentiss, shaking his head. There was no mistaking the message.

  "All right, Mr. Malek," Prentiss said to Charlie, pen poised over notebook. "Is this your doing?"

  "No. I–"

  The detective sneered at him. "You know she's dead, and I think you also know how she got that way. It would be–"

  "Wait a minute!" It was my turn to interrupt. "Give the man a chance to answer."

  "We'll get to you soon enough, cousin," Prentiss spat heatedly.

  A surge of anger overtook me. "Just so you know, Detective, I'm a Tribune reporter, based at 11th and State. I meet with Chief Fahey every morning." I pulled out my police press card and held it up in front of his face.

  Prentiss flushed. "Are you by any chance threatening me, chum?"

  "Not at all, but since you were showing your credentials, I felt you ought to see mine, too."

  "Well, thank you so very goddamn much, sir," Prentiss hissed, turning to his partner. "Dave, take our Mr. Very Important Reporter here someplace, maybe the kitchen. See what you can find out from him about what went on in here tonight, and don't let him give you any lip. My experience with reporters is that they've all got smart mouths to go with their small brains."

  Detective Hodge nodded and gestured in the direction of the hall. I followed him to the small kitchen, where we sat at the Formica-topped, chrome-edged table.

  "Jack, he's got a kind of short fuse," the stocky cop said by way of an apology for his partner. "He thought you was tryin' to show him up in there."

  "Not my intent," I replied evenly, "but I thought it was best that you both ought to know who I am in addition to being Charlie's cousin."

  Hodge nodded, pulled a notebook from an inside pocket of his rumpled gray suit coat, and propped his elbows on the table. "Good idea. Now, if you can tell us exactly what happened tonight."

  I recited chapter and verse from Charlie's call to me until the moment the cops entered his apartment, with one exception: I said it was Charlie who phoned the police. He was already in enough trouble.

  "Did you know his wife?" the ever-frowning Hodge asked.

  "Yes, a little. They'd been married for less than a year. She was a war bride, from England. She came over here with a whole boatload of others like her."

  "Lotta them here now, sure enough. How did they get along?"

  I tried to make my shrug looked offhanded. "I didn't see them all that often, but they were like all married couples, I suppose. Mostly good times, but the occasional bumpy spot. You probably know how that is."

  He nodded soberly. "Oh, yeah, that I do. Did you ever hear or see anything that made you think he'd want to…well, do anything violent?"

  I shook my head. "My cousin is the last person I know who would get violent. He's probably the mildest, meekest guy I've ever known."

  Hodge contemplated his notebook. "Back to the wife. How would you describe her personality?"

  "I'd say she was the fun-loving type–wanted to go out to movies, restaurants, dancing, that sort of thing. I guess that's understandable, given how tough things were in England during the war. There wasn't much fun to be found there."

  "Uh-huh, so I heard. My brother was stationed near London for two years. Did the two of them go out on the town much?"

  "I don't think so. We had them over for dinner at our place in Oak Park a couple of times, but Charlie had been working a lot of overtime. He was trying to get money to buy a house out in the suburbs."

  "Like a lotta people these days," Hodge said. "So, did the wife sit around at home nights?"

  "I really don't know," I said truthfully.

  "Seems that life could get awful lonesome alone in the flat every night," the thickset detective observed.

  "I suppose so," I agreed.

  "Do you know if they had any other friends…maybe neighbors they got together with?"

  "It's possible, although Charlie never mentioned anyone to me." That was also true.

  Hodge scribbled something in his notebook and, if I read him right, he was trying to come up with another line of questioning. As it turned out, he didn't have to. Before he could open his mouth, his belligerent partner barreled into the kitchen.

  "Find out anything from him, Dave?" Detective Jack Prentiss barked from just inside the doorway, gesturing in my direction with a thumb.

  "Well, I haven't really–"

  "Never mind. We're taking Malek in for more questioning."

  Hodge's broad face registered puzzlement. "Which Malek?"

  "The one whose wife is dead, of course," Prentiss said derisively. "We'll worry about the newspaper guy here later." He looked down at me as though I were a form of life somewhere below a tadpole and slightly above a worm.

  "Does that mean that Charlie's under arrest?" I asked.

  Prentiss leered at me. "Figure it out for yourself, scribbler. And feel free to whine to the bosses over at 11th and State all you want to. Now get the hell out of here. I can't stand the stench that a reporter gives off, it makes me want to puke."

  "What's your partner's beef with the newspapers?" I asked after Prentiss had stormed out. "Did we queer one of his cases?"

  Hodge turned a palm up. "Beats me," he said, "but Jack's had that attitude as long as I've known him, which is going on six years now."

  "Sorry to hear it, but most of us didn't get into this business to win a popularity contest."

  "Same with our line of work," the detective said. "I've been called a whole lotta names, most of which you couldn't print in your newspaper. Ya gotta grow a thick skin."

  I smiled ruefully. "So I guess both of us got into our respective lines of work for the glory, huh?"

  That got the hint of a smile from the dour Hodge. "Yeah, that and the fabulous pay, of course."

  "Oh, of course; how could I have forgotten that wonderful benefit of the job? Well, I think I'd better check on my cousin before you haul him away. Think you can keep Prentiss from taking a swing at me?"

  "Aw, his bark is worse–"

  "Than his bite, I know, I know," I said over my shoulder as we walked back down the hall to the living room. Edwina's body was gone now, and so were the patrolmen and the med
ics. The medical examiner and his crew, who must have come in while I was in the kitchen with Hodge, were packing up their gear. Charlie sat hunched on an easy chair in one corner with his head in his hands as Prentiss flipped his notebook closed and slid it into a pocket.

  "Alright, let's go," he said coldly, tapping Charlie on the shoulder.

  "So, are you booking him or not?" I asked. No copper, uniformed or otherwise, was going to intimidate me, especially where a relative was involved.

  Prentiss pivoted toward me, meaty fists balled. "Go to hell, newshound."

  "Can I quote you on that for our late editions, Detective Prentiss?"

  "Damn right. Can you spell my name, or do I have to write it down for you?"

  "Thanks, but don't bother. I wouldn't trust you to get the letters in the proper order."

  "Why, you miserable bastard, I'll–"

  "Don't, Jack. Take it easy." Prentiss looked like he was going to haul off and swing at me, but Hodge wrapped burly arms around his partner, pulling him back.

  "Charlie, are you okay?" I asked as though we were the only two in the room.

  He looked up at me through teary eyes and nodded numbly.

  "You sure?"

  He nodded again. "Thanks, Stevie," he mumbled. "I think they…they want me to go with them."

  "Yeah. Well, don't worry; I'll be checking on you. And I will look into getting you a lawyer."

  Prentiss snorted. "Sure, your cousin here, the hotshot, know-it-all reporter, will try to start pulling strings for you. Must be nice to have friends way up there in high places. If you want to call the newspaper racket a high place, that is. To me, it's about as low as you can get without climbing into a manhole and wading through the sewer slime."

  I started to fire back at him, but stifled it. At this moment, in this place, there was nothing I could do to help Charlie except beat a retreat and regroup. Which I did.

  CHAPTER 4

  I logged barely five hours sleep that night. After I got home, Catherine and I went over what had occurred in Pilsen until well past 1:00 a.m.

  "What do you think's going to happen to him?" she asked as she poured both of us a cup of newly brewed coffee at the kitchen table.