Saks’s face was impassive, and Gus couldn’t tell for certain, but he strongly suspected that the lawyer had not, in fact, considered it.
After the briefest moment, Saks replied. “Yes. I have, and I’m still convinced she’s not responsible for this murder.”
Gus nodded but remained silent. After a few seconds, Saks leaned closer to Gus, his voice intent as he spoke.
“Lily’s certainly been no angel. God only knows what she’s done in the past. And the police are aware of that. But now she’s all alone in the world, just growing old, barely making ends meet. The police are blinded by her history. I’m telling you, Gus, she’s not guilty. Private investigators, particularly the ones I generally use, are expensive. Lily can’t afford them. I’m willing to do my part with free legal representation, and I’ll even agree to pay you for your time if we can come to a reasonable fee. I know what you’ve done in the recent past, Gus. Two wrongly accused people freed by your efforts, and two murderers brought to justice.” Saks paused, picking up his knife and fork once more. “Will you take a look, Gus? That’s all I’m asking.”
Later that evening, Gus Oliver sat at a desk in the plush law offices of Andrew Saks. Spread before him lay photocopies of Suffolk County Police Department’s file contents relating to the murder of Francis Dermott McAdams. Included were numerous eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch photographs of the body, crime scene, and various objects and locations deemed pertinent to the investigations.
On October 7, 1959, some six months earlier, in a heavily wooded area beside a gravel road near the Poospatuck Indian Reservation, within the small Long Island community of Mastic, a man’s body was found. The victim had been shot to death.
County investigators, working with the two-man Mastic Police Department, soon learned that the deceased was a sixty-four-year-old retired New York City police captain, Francis McAdams, who had recently moved to Shirley, a town not far from where the body had been found.
It was later learned that the victim’s house was located less than a quarter-mile from that of another former New York City resident, Lily O’Rourke.
The Suffolk County investigators visited McAdams’ home where, accompanied by Shirley police chief Gene Worthy, they methodically searched the house.
The divorced McAdams had lived alone. Found among his belongings was a thick, battered scrapbook. Curious, Worthy sat at the small kitchen table leafing through the scrapbook, its yellowed, dog-eared press clippings dating from the early nineteen twenties until McAdams’ retirement in 1956.
One series of articles in particular caught the chief’s eye. In 1927, at what had apparently been an infamous and legendary New York speakeasy, thirty-two-year-old McAdams, then a lieutenant, had been involved in a deadly face-to-face shootout with a known associate of Lucky Luciano, thirty-year-old Guiseppe Cataldo Rudialaro, a.k.a. Joe Rudi. The shooting had taken place inside the second-floor brothel of the speakeasy where Rudi served as bouncer. There had been only one eyewitness present: Lily O’Rourke Cosenza, the twenty-seven-year-old wife of the establishment’s owner, Dominick Cosenza.
Chief Worthy quickly turned pages, finding follow-up stories detailing how, after sworn testimony from both McAdams and Lily, the Grand Jury reached its decision: Not only was the shooting deemed justified, but in slaying Joe Rudi, Lieutenant McAdams had saved his own life, and most probably Lily’s. But with careful reading, those same articles hinted at the possibility of a somewhat more sinister and unspecified scenario.
“Hey, Inspector,” Worthy had called. “I think you need to see this.”
As the current investigation continued, it was discovered that Lily had often been seen in McAdams’ company since his recent arrival in Shirley. Inquiries to the New York City Police Department provided details of the checkered, criminally themed life of Lily O’Rourke Cosenza, as well as indications of a somewhat less than noble police career for Francis McAdams.
Tire tracks found in the mud near the body proved unreadable as to tire type or wear but did reveal that the car that left them had a front-wheel track width of 58.0 inches and a rear track of 58.8.
The 1955 four-door Chevrolet Bel Air registered to Lily O’Rourke had identical dimensions.
A search warrant was issued, the car examined carefully, however no forensic evidence was found. A search of Lily’s house turned up two unregistered handguns, a .22 automatic and a snub-nose Colt .38 revolver. Although McAdams had been shot twice with a .38, the recovered bullets did not match Lily’s weapon.
Autopsy indicated the body had been lying in the woods for not less than five, nor more than ten days, and that McAdams had initially been murdered somewhere else and his body merely dumped in the woods. Examinations of both his and Lily’s homes were negative for traces of blood or other forensics.
Gus continued to read through the file, finishing up with a long, detailed report from the New York City police. When he was done, he slipped off his reading glasses and rubbed at his weary eyes.
He needed to meet this Lily O’Rourke.
On Friday morning Gus visited the women’s wing of the Suffolk County jail, Lily O’Rourke sitting opposite him at the table in an interview room. Her matronly prison garb seemed oddly at opposition to her pretty grey eyes and medium-length chestnut hair, only lightly speckled with grey. Despite the slight facial puffiness indicative of a heavy drinker, she was an attractive woman with a touch of sensuality emanating from her. Gus Oliver found it easy to believe that a man in his sixties, such as Andrew Saks, would find Lily alluring and, Gus speculated, perhaps easy to believe.
“So, Gus,” she said, “welcome to the club.”
“The club? Which club is that, Lily?”
She smiled with her answer. “The ‘Let’s help the poor girl get outta jail’ club. I guess if Andrew Saks is the president, you must be second in charge.”
Gus shrugged. “I haven’t joined any club, Lily. Tell you the truth, after reading the case file, I doubt I’ll be applying for membership.”
“Look,” she said, “I’ll tell you what I told Andrew. If they throw me in the gas chamber for this, it’s not exactly Joan of Arc going to the stake, you know? Maybe I even deserve it—hell, I’ve done some hurt in my life. But—if right and wrong mean anything to you, then I’m telling you: I didn’t kill this guy. Twenty years ago, if it became necessary, yeah, maybe I would have. But now I’m fifty-nine years old and all I wanna do is watch Dobie Gillis and Rawhide on TV. If I start missin’ the good old days, maybe I’ll tune into The Untouchables. I watch TV, sip some bourbon, and go to bed. Alone, thank God. No more need to have some hairy ape pawing at me.” She smiled. “No offense.”
Gus nodded. “None taken. So, you’ve made your speech. Want to hear mine?”
“Sure. Case you ain’t noticed, I really got nowhere to go.”
“The way the police see it, you had means, motive, and opportunity. You were seen with the guy plenty, no doubt you knew him. In fact, far as the police can find out, last time he was seen alive he was with you. You own two illegal guns, probably know how to use ’em. Maybe even had a third that’s now at the bottom of Moriches Bay. You’re no stranger to violence or criminal behavior, and it sure was no coincidence that McAdams decided to move out of the city and, of all the places in the world, buy a house close enough to yours he can hit it with a rock. Then there’s the tire tracks. Pretty good match for your Chevy.”
“You maybe want to read that file again, Gus. It should tell you I’m the only person out here he knew. Who else would he have been seen with? And remember, the tracks don’t match, only the track widths match. You know how many Chevys there are on the road?”
“No. Plenty, I guess.”
“Yeah. And the cops don’t even know what date he was killed, so I have no opportunity to alibi myself. And as for motive, I know what the cops say. NYPD told them all the rumors of how I skipped out of New York and dropped Cosenza from my name because I was carrying a ton of mob dough in my pocket, dough I
supposedly robbed from the boys. So the cops figure McAdams was crooked and maybe sent out to find me, then decided, ‘What the hell, I’ll just rob the dough from her and skip.’ Or, if the jury don’t like that one, the cops figure they’ll just say McAdams was gonna blackmail me, threaten to tell the goombas where they could find me. So I killed him. Let me ask you something, Gus: How stupid do you figure I am? If I did kill him, don’t you think I’d know the cops would be knockin’ on my door in under twenty-four hours? Hell, I even look good as a suspect to myself. You think I don’t realize that? Believe me, if for some reason I had to kill McAdams, he would have accidentally drowned in his tub or tripped down his staircase or maybe swallowed some pills to end it all. I sure as hell wouldn’t shoot the son of a bitch and dump him two miles from my house.”
Gus pondered it. “According to the reports, when the police first came to see you, you said, ‘Well, what kept you? I’ve been expecting you boys.’”
She nodded. “Yeah. I said that. See, I had no idea McAdams was dead. I just always figured sooner or later the local cops would somehow find out about me and pay a visit. Maybe ask me to get out of town.” Now she smiled. “Or maybe shake me down for some of the millions I’m sitting on.”
“What about this money the New York police say you have?” Gus asked.
She snorted with her answer. “Damn, Gus, you think I’d be ringing up groceries and selling girdles if I had a pile of dough? I never once held a legit job until I kissed the old life goodbye and moved out to these sticks to grow old and die. Hell, I’ve made more money on my back than any ten women you know ever made standing on their feet. And I spent every dime as fast as I made it.”
“That’s it? That’s your answer?”
“Look. After my husband got murdered by the Brooklyn mob, they took over everything, every one of his rackets. And Big Dom Cosenza didn’t believe in stocks and bonds, Gus. Every cent he had was cold, hard cash. You wanna know where that dough is? Go ask Tommy Boy Alfredo in Brooklyn. He’ll tell you where it is: In his back pocket, that’s where. If he thought I was holding out on him, he’da beat the truth out of me and then tossed me in the river.”
Gus thought for a moment. “What about the guns?”
“Twenty-two was a gift,” she said with a shrug. “For my thirtieth birthday from that jackass I was married to. The thirty-eight was his. What should I have done with ’em, tossed them in the trash? Given ’em to the cops? When I walked away from everything, I just put them in my suitcase.”
“How do you explain McAdams moving out here? Did you tell him where you were?”
“No. Last thing I wanted was a man around.” She gave Gus a wink. “But, since I’m being honest, that’s a fairly recent concept for me. See, back in the day, I’d always be stringing two, maybe three guys along. I had a big appetite. Francis McAdams was just one of those men. After Dom was killed, Francis started coming around again, but I short-circuited any idea of picking up our affair. So, he gets divorced and starts thinking about me. I was the kind of dame a guy tends to remember. He tracks me down and moves out here. Stupid bastard brought me roses the first night he knocked on my door.” She shook her head. “I might have been happy to see him if it was a quart of Wild Turkey.” She curled her lips. “Roses,” she said dismissively.
Gus stood up. “Okay, Lily. I’ll be in touch. Or may Andrew will be.”
She smiled up at him, her grey eyes twinkling. “Well, now, ain’t that the smoothest brush-off I ever got.”
“Not sure yet, Lily,” Gus said. “I need to nose around some, make a few calls. We’ll see.”
“Maybe you believe me?”
“Lily,” he said, his voice cold, “I figure I’m standing in the shoes of a whole bunch of men who maybe believed you. And that might not be the smartest place to be standin’.”
She laughed out loud. “Damn, Gus, I like you. Refreshing change from the morons I spent most of my life around.” She let her smile fade, and her eyes grew sad. “I understand, Gus,” she said. “Whichever way it goes, I’ll understand.”
Late that same afternoon, Gus sat in Andrew Saks’s office.
“So, Gus,” the lawyer asked. “What have you learned with all your phone calls?”
Gus kept his face neutral with his reply.
“General Motors’ legal department told me almost eight hundred thousand nineteen fifty-five Bel Airs were sold new. All with the exact same track measurements. Plus, well over a million more GMs, Fords, Chryslers, Ramblers, and Studebakers had the same or damn near same measurements. The NYPD Internal Affairs tell me Francis McAdams was always known as a shady policeman. Nothing ever proven, but he seemed to have mob ties dating back to that long-ago shooting at The Alimony Prison.”
“I know that,” Saks replied.
“Seems to me,” Gus went on, “this is one hell of a circumstantial case against Lily.”
“Yes, it is. But it’s perfectly legal to convict on circumstantial evidence. And as you know, Suffolk County juries consist of farmers, fishermen, housewives, tradesmen, and small-business owners. How do you think they’ll react to a lurid tale involving a gun moll and brothel madam who came out here from New York City and murdered a crooked cop and God knows what else?”
“Well, now, one of my two sons is a lawyer. I assume you tried to suppress Lily’s past from being heard by a jury?”
“Of course. But her relationship with McAdams goes back at least thirty-three years. The judge agreed with the prosecutor—it’s all very relevant to motive and, therefore, admissible.”
“Andrew, you may be up against it here. Tell you the truth, I’m not sure why you’re so convinced she’s innocent.”
“Gus, I’ve met thousands of people in trouble. My hunches are rarely wrong.” Here he gave Gus a smile. “That jury you were screened for, the drug case. Those two boys hadn’t been in this office two full minutes before I knew they were guilty. I believe you came to the same conclusion simply by looking around the courtroom.”
Gus nodded. “Yes. But that sort of thing can be a two-edged sword. I bet the police are convinced, based on their gut feeling, that Lily is guilty. That could lead to a little ‘creative’ testimony from them at the trial. That’s one reason the law requires more than gut feelings. The law requires proof. And, to tell the truth, I need a little myself. Proof she’s not a murderer.”
“I understand, Gus. Have you learned anything else?”
“Weather Bureau says there was a lot of rain in late September and early October. The body was found October seventh and had been there five to ten days. The crime-scene photos show tire tracks made in very muddy ground, so sloppy muddy the treads couldn’t be effectively cast. What I’m thinkin’ is, why would someone drive off a nice solid gravel road and risk getting stuck in the mud with a dead body in their trunk? Why not just dump the body at the side of the road and drive away? The police think it was because Lily wanted the body hidden in the woods and wasn’t strong enough to wrestle it outta the car and drag it thirty yards to where it was found, so she drove her Chevy in closer.”
“Or,” Saks offered, “as I intend to argue, those muddy tracks were made before or even after the body was left. By a hunter or a couple of teenage lovers. Made by one of those two million or so other vehicles with the same front and rear track measurements.”
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Maybe. And maybe the real killer did leave his car on the gravel road and did drag the body into the woods, with all telltale signs of it washed away by rain.”
“Exactly.”
Gus sat silently, thinking. After a moment, he raised his eyes back to Saks. “Can you call Suffolk PD? Arrange for me to have access to both Lily’s and McAdams’ places? I’d like to nose around some.”
Saks reached to his intercom. “Agnes,” he said when his secretary responded. “Get me Inspector Clarelli, Suffolk County Police.”
“Yes, Mr. Saks.”
Saks smiled at Gus. “I’ve got a good feeling here, Gus. Very
good.”
The next morning, Saturday, March fifth, was crisp and clear, the moist, salty Long Island air stirring the senses. Gus Oliver slowly drove his powder-blue 1959 Edsel north on Central Islin’s Main Street. Just past Dominick’s Shoe Repair, he swung the long hood of the car into a perpendicular parking spot in front of the Optimo Tobacco and Candy Shop.
“Hello, Fred,” he said as he entered.
“Morning, Gus,” the man answered from behind the counter. “Where’s little Joey? Ain’t it time for your usual Saturday mornin’ breakfast together over at the drugstore?”
Gus shrugged. “Not this week, Fred. I had to disappoint my grandson. Got some errand I need to run.”
“Too bad. What can I get you?”
Gus reached for his wallet. “A ten-pack of Polaroid film for my 80A Highlander.”
Leaving, Gus turned the Edsel south and drove out of town. After passing Eddie’s Texaco station, he turned east onto Motor Parkway. The powerful V-8 sped him quickly to the small rural community of Shirley.
When he arrived at Lily O’Rourke’s four-room cabin, he was met by Shirley Police Chief Gene Worthy.
“Seems to me, Gus, it oughta be Chief Carson from over in Mastic handlin’ this,” Worthy said. “After all, the body was found in his town. Not mine.”
Gus smiled as he took the house keys from Worthy. “Yeah, well, that’s sure enough true, Gene. But seems like you got him outnumbered some, what with the suspect and the victim from right here in your town.”
Worthy snorted. “Damn, Gus, they’re two city folk. Got no more to do with this here place than the emperor of China.”
Later, with no discernible evidence in hand, the two men left the cabin.
“McAdams’ place is close enough to walk,” Gus said, and they strode along narrow, tree-lined Heston Street.
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 09/01/12 Page 11
