The Man Who Understood Cats

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “Guy still around?”

  “Retired last year. Grove or Groove, something like that. Ask Evanger. He was around then.”

  Thinnes wasn’t ready to ask Evanger. Yet. He said, “Thanks, Swann,” and hung up.

  A helpful clerk in the personnel department came up with the name of the vice cop. Grove. Thinnes found him in the phone book. As luck would have it, he was home, but he wasn’t anxious to discuss old cases. At least, not the Margolis case.

  “Yeah, I remember the kid,” he told Thinnes after he’d called Area Six back to be sure Thinnes was on the level. “Basically a good kid. Had an asshole for an old man. I was real sorry to hear he bought it; I’d heard he’d cleaned up his act.”

  “What was his act? You arrested him once.”

  “Him’n his buddy. Wasn’t my idea. These two old biddies insisted. I’da just rousted ’em.”

  “What’d you charge them with?”

  “Public indecency, just in case something leaked.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who the kid was with.”

  “Well?”

  “Sorry. That was a long time ago. And the kid’s death was his own damn fault.”

  “Bottom line?”

  “I gave my word only a grand jury’d get it outta me.”

  “That high up, huh?” Grove didn’t answer. “Will you at least tell me who you gave your word to?”

  “The patrol supervisor.” Thinnes waited. “A Sergeant Evanger.”

  Evanger was talking with Karsch when Thinnes stuck his head in the lieutenant’s office. He told Thinnes to come in.

  Thinnes asked Karsch, “The lieutenant tell you about Margolis’s confession?”

  Karsch nodded. “Don’t be too hard on him. Survivor guilt can drive people to do and say some very irrational things.”

  “You think he could’ve killed Finley?”

  “I’m not convinced Finley didn’t kill himself.”

  Karsch couldn’t back down from his original diagnosis of suicide, Thinnes decided. Couldn’t admit he could be wrong.

  “Given the right provocation,” Karsch said, “anyone can kill. But why would Margolis kill Finley?”

  “Maybe he thought he was gay. Margolis doesn’t like gays.” Thinnes turned to Evanger. “Does he, Lieutenant?” Evanger didn’t say anything. Thinnes turned back to Karsch, who looked like he was torn between leaving to avoid a messy scene and staying to hear the latest dirt. “You see, this wasn’t Margolis’s first performance. Last time he was here, he claimed his son was murdered by gays.” Thinnes looked at Evanger. “Did you tell Karsch that, Lieutenant? You didn’t tell me.”

  “I don’t see that it’s relevant.”

  “But I’m supposed to be the judge of that,” Thinnes said softly. “I’m the detective in charge of this case.”

  “You don’t have a case, Thinnes. You have no proof Finley’s death wasn’t suicide.”

  “I’ll get the proof.” Thinnes let his tone imply with or without your help.

  “And while you’re out poking into five-year-old accidents and thirteen-year-old misdemeanors, who’s working up the current cases? Do you know how many homicides we’ve had this year? If we clear two a day, we won’t solve ’em all.”

  “This one sticks in my craw.”

  “They all stick in my craw. Why get worked up over the ones you can’t solve?”

  “Sooner or later, I’ll solve it. There’s something about murder—even the otherwise intelligent perpetrator gets nervous and screws up. All you have to do is keep poking around. They get this urge to cover their tracks—even if they’re already covered—and they fuck themselves up.”

  Evanger and Karsch exchanged glances that told Thinnes they’d already discussed him and the Finley case.

  “Whoever Finley’s killer is,” Thinnes told them, as if he thought they might be convinced, “has pretty good sources. He knew I wasn’t buying Finley’s death was suicide. And he tried to scare off and then set up the only other person who didn’t believe Finley killed himself. He knew we weren’t buying Dr. Caleb as a dealer, so then he moved immediately to set me up, to get me off his trail.”

  “It seems to me,” Evanger said, “that wasn’t so bright.”

  It was actually stupid to try and set up a cop. Thinnes didn’t have to say so. “He couldn’t have known I’d get on to Berringer—I almost didn’t.”

  Thinnes wondered how the killer knew where to send Berringer to get the pictures of him. Not the phone book; he had an unpublished number. “…Or that Margolis’d get caught smuggling and spill the beans about the blackmail.”

  “But you haven’t got any proof that whoever set you up had anything to do with Finley. You’ve put a lot of men away, Thinnes. Every one of them has a good reason to get you.”

  “And plant coke on Dr. Caleb?” Thinnes shook his head. “Who did the Margolis kid get arrested with?”

  Evanger shook his head. “He has nothing to do with this, and I’m not dragging him into it.”

  “That big, hunh? Must be a captain or an alderman by now.” Evanger’s look said he’d heard enough. Thinnes turned to Karsch. “Say for the sake of argument, Doctor, that Finley was murdered. What light can you shed on his killer?”

  “You’re asking me to analyze someone I’ve never met?”

  “A profile. The feds do it all the time.”

  Karsch shrugged. “People react differently to having killed someone. Some are devastated and have to confess and be punished or absolved. Others, when they realize God isn’t going to strike them dead, begin to see it as no big thing. They may be tempted to kill again because they’ve gotten away with it. I’d say that if you really had a murder here, you’d be dealing with the latter type of killer. He’s not going to get caught.”

  Fifty-Eight

  Caleb looked speculatively at his reflection in the one-way glass while he waited. To most of those watching him from the outside, he might have just been checking his hair, but Thinnes knew he was aware he was being watched. Thinnes decided Caleb would wait a long time before he’d complain about the wait, because he knew its purpose was to unnerve him.

  Thinnes joined him. “Afternoon, Dr. Caleb.” Caleb nodded cautiously. “We’re investigating Vincent Margolis, and we’d appreciate hearing what you can tell us about him. You know him well?”

  “That depends on what you mean by know him.”

  “What do you think I mean?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You’re not close friends?”

  “He blames me for his wife’s leaving him.”

  Thinnes nodded empathetically.

  “I believed he was more concerned with appearances than with his wife’s mental health, and I said so. That didn’t endear me to him, especially after Anita asked for a divorce.”

  “Could Margolis have killed Finley?”

  “I take it he hasn’t an alibi, or you wouldn’t be asking.” When Thinnes didn’t answer, Caleb shrugged and said, “I doubt it. He might kill in anger, but if he decided in advance he wanted someone dead, I suspect he’d probably hire someone to do it. His arrogance is camouflage for profound insecurity.”

  “You know, Doctor, you’re real good at getting into people’s heads.”

  “Call me Jack.”

  Thinnes ignored the attempt to keep it friendly. “What can you tell me about Christopher Margolis?”

  Caleb look at the mirror again and then at Thinnes. “Can we speak privately?”

  Thinnes looked around the room as if pointing out that it was empty. Caleb seemed annoyed. Thinnes waited.

  Caleb finally said, “I see no reason to discuss Christopher Margolis. He’s been dead five years. He could hardly be involved.”

  Thinnes shrugged as if it didn’t matter anyway. “You go to Mexico quite often. What do you do there?”

  The question obviously was not unexpected. Caleb answered matter-of-factly, “I work as a volunteer at a clinic.”

  “
Is that a front to smuggle drugs?”

  Caleb was subtly thrown off balance; Thinnes pressed his advantage. “You bringing back cocaine?”

  “No.”

  “What is it you have to hide?” Thinnes asked more aggressively.

  “I know how this works, John: you try to make me angry so I’ll lose control and say something imprudent.”

  “So you never lose control?” Caleb shook his head. “What about Nam?”

  Caleb was momentarily, subtly startled, but quickly relaxed. “Of course you’d have looked up my record.” He shrugged. “So you already know about Nam. It’s what my attorney might call irrelevant and immaterial.”

  Thinnes moved closer to almost whisper, “It proves you can kill.”

  “Not in cold blood.” Caleb looked at Thinnes and said very evenly and calmly, “You can question me all night, but we both know it’s a game. The real issue is whether you can believe that I killed Allan Finley, that I could coldly and deliberately put a gun to his head and blow his brains out—after I spent three years of my life trying to help him straighten out.” He seemed almost disappointed that Thinnes could believe him capable of such an act.

  “It’s something I can’t believe of anyone—until I have the evidence.”

  Caleb seemed to find this satisfactory, if equivocal. “Well then, until you have the evidence, don’t.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued. Thinnes could think of nothing penetrating to ask. Caleb seemed to be playing some shrink’s waiting game. Finally the doctor said, “I’d like to leave. I have clients to see.”

  Thinnes shrugged and went to the door.

  As he rose, Caleb said, “Tell me something, Detective. If anyone else had been assigned to investigate Finley’s death, would it have been written off as a suicide?”

  “It may be yet. Why?”

  “Who’s the one person who knows enough about both of us to screw us both?”

  “Not Ray Crowne. Why would he?”

  “Would he have access to cocaine?”

  “Are you kidding? The only place you’ll find more drugs than a cop shop is a pharmaceutical warehouse.”

  “Does he know about me?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Would he know how to circumvent my security system?”

  Thinnes shrugged. “You learn all sorts of skills in this line of work. But why? He hasn’t got a motive.”

  “Someone has a motive. We just don’t know yet what it is. Where was Ray the night my apartment was broken into?”

  “With us,” Thinnes said defensively.

  “While you were filling out your report?”

  Thinnes shook his head, not buying it. As he waved Caleb out the door, he could hear the Levolor blind drop over the one-way glass outside. The group—Evanger, Viernes, Ferris, and Karsch—tried to act casual. Thinnes said, “Dr. Caleb, if you’ll wait downstairs, I’ll give you a lift back to your office.”

  Caleb, who’d been looking the others over, nodded and walked off without comment.

  Thinnes glared at Evanger. “Well?”

  “What’d you say to him?” Thinnes knew he meant when he’d lowered his voice.

  “Something he didn’t want us to hear,” Viernes said.

  “You seem to be pulling your punches today, Thinnes,” Karsch said.

  “Maybe the rumors about him stressing out are true,” Ferris told Karsch. “When he didn’t have a shred of proof against Caleb, he was sure he was guilty; now there’s some evidence he’s involved, he’s going out of his way to clear the guy.”

  “It might make some sense,” Evanger said, dryly, “to take the word of a respected psychiatrist over some blackmailer caught red-handed.”

  “My money’s on the shrink here,” Ferris said. “I think Thinnes finally met his match. What do you think, Karsch?”

  “Dr. Caleb is very good,” Karsch said, “but whether he can shake Thinnes off…” He shrugged.

  “You will have a report for me in the morning,” Evanger told Thinnes.

  Thinnes turned and walked away.

  Fifty-Nine

  They got in Thinnes’s car, and he burned rubber out of the lot and ran the yellow at Western. His mood paralleled the rubber marks he left on the pavement. Crowne hadn’t the brains or the ambition! Damn Caleb! And damn Evanger!

  He took Clybourn and drove like the damn-it-all mood he was in, cutting in and out without signals, riding the brakes, tearing up to lights. Caleb didn’t comment, even when they approached Cabrini with its DMZ of empty lawns.

  God damn Caleb! He’d been a fool to trust him. A shrink. A professional mind fucker! Thinnes stole a sideways look at him, slouched against the door like the Cheshire cat, smiling inside. And there probably wasn’t a dick at Area Six that didn’t know by now that Thinnes had soft-pedaled the interrogation. Why? Was he afraid Caleb would let something slip about the favors he’d done Thinnes? He’d never let a suspect get close before, much less mess with his mind.

  Caleb broke the silence. “Are you afraid you were wrong about me, or just afraid of me?”

  “That’s cryptic.”

  “The average straight male knows absolutely nothing about homosexuality and doesn’t want to know because he might learn something uncomfortable about himself.” His near-smile dared Thinnes to challenge him.

  That was only part of it. Fags had to be different—and you didn’t want to know if they weren’t. But the worst of it was, you couldn’t always tell. He hadn’t known about Caleb. Hadn’t even suspected!

  “What’s to know? You telling me you don’t like boys?”

  “I’d be a damn liar, wouldn’t I?”

  “What about your professional ethics, Doctor?”

  “You’ve met a lot of teenaged hookers in your line, haven’t you?”

  “What’s your point?” Thinnes could tell Caleb knew he’d met far too many.

  “You ever screw any of them?”

  The analogy was unnerving. Thinnes felt his reaction showing. He said, “No,” very quietly.

  “Then why do you assume…?”

  Thinnes didn’t answer. Caleb persisted. “Were you ever tempted?”

  “Yeah,” Thinnes admitted, grudgingly.

  “My experience exactly.”

  “You were screwing a patient’s stepson. How does that jibe with your professional code of ethics?”

  “About as well as life ever fits the rules. Chris and I had already been living together two years when I was asked to consult on Anita. I agreed to see her before I learned her name—just on the basis of her history.” He paused. “We don’t always have the luxury of choosing between good and evil—most often it’s evil or worse. If I’d refused to treat Anita, she’d almost certainly have been subjected to draconian procedures just to satisfy her husband’s egoism.”

  “You didn’t worry about a malpractice suit?”

  Caleb’s wry smile was almost a grimace. “Margolis would have had to admit publicly that his son was gay. It was easier for him to convince himself that he didn’t know who Chris was living with, and that Anita left him for another man.”

  “What is it you want?” Thinnes asked.

  Caleb smiled as if the question was naive. “What most people want, I expect.” Thinnes waited. “Love and work.”

  “You found ’em?”

  “The work.”

  “You’re pretty damn candid.”

  “I should think a detective would be used to confessions.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to catch Allan’s killer.”

  Caleb’s conviction was quietly chilling. But there was more. There had to be.

  “And?”

  “What else could there be?”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence before Thinnes said, softly, “Tell me about Christopher Margolis. Was he a client?”

  “Of course not.”

  Thinnes nodded. He’d expected as much. “How old was he?”

  “
Seventeen. When I met him he was hustling in a bar. A dark bar. I didn’t think about his age until I got him out of there and into the light.

  “And?”

  “I fed him and told him to come back when he grew up.”

  “According to Anita, you helped him get started as an artist.”

  Caleb shrugged. “He gave me a line—he wanted to go to art school, but his old man wouldn’t pay. It was a logical variation of the standard hustle. You’ve seen my place. It wouldn’t take a genius to guess my interest is in art. But there’s often a grain of truth in such fictions, so I told him that if he and his portfolio could get accepted at an accredited art school, I’d see to it that he didn’t have to worry about the tuition—a challenge he accepted, I’m happy to say.”

  “So when did you start sleeping with him?”

  Caleb looked annoyed. “Years later.”

  Thinnes waited to see if silence would compel Caleb to elaborate.

  “If it comes back to you, it’s yours.”

  “What’s that?”

  “More of your sixties cliché. Chris eventually repaid me with six paintings, independently valued at ten percent above what I paid out for his expenses. He never had to sleep with me.”

  “He lived with you?”

  “After he’d made it and could’ve had anyone he wanted.” Caleb gave Thinnes a look that was a challenge. “Do you want all the intimate details?”

  Thinnes flinched. “How about just the punch line?”

  “I loved him. More than anyone or anything on earth.” He looked very deliberately at Thinnes. “Can you understand that?”

  Thinnes was concentrating on traffic, which lowered his usual defenses. Without thinking, he said, “That’s how I feel about my wife.” He slammed his fist on the steering wheel. “Why did I tell you that?”

  Caleb smiled gently. “Because you’re lonely and combat-fatigued, and you’ve become too estranged from your wife to tell her. And because on some level you’d just about decided I mean you no harm.”