Corpus Corpus

by H. Paul Jeffers

"As soon as I arrive at a story," Fields explained, "I get an establishing shot. I was hoping to catch Janus and Miss Dane as they arrived, but they were already inside the lobby."

  Onto the screen came a close-up of a sign:

  BLACK ORCHIDS BANQUET

  SECOND FLOOR DINING ROOM

  Oh my gosh," Dane said. "How could Wiggins have missed that mistake?"

  With a puzzled look, Fields asked, "What mistake?" "It's Black Orchid. Singular."

  The screen showed the crowded lobby with Janus's white hat seemingly afloat on a sea of backs of heads. Then came a jiggling shot of the lobby's carpet.

  "Ever since I didn't have my camera ready and missed getting a shot of Bobby Kennedy being gunned down in that hotel kitchen in Los Angeles," Fields said, "I always keep the camera rolling whenever I change position."

  Next on the screen was the news conference itself with rude reporters asking rude questions.

  Throughout these questions and the answers, Fields' lens remained on Janus and Dane. But now he changed his position, moving behind them for the reverse angle.

  "This is the shot I'm interested in," Bogdanovic said.

  A young man with a camera slung from a shoulder and grasping a traditional reporter's notebook who politely addressed Janus as mister was asked by Janus, "Is my father here?"

  As the crowd laughed, Fields' lens zoomed into a close-up of the unamused youth as he demanded, "How do you sleep at night?"

  "I sleep in the raw!"

  "What I meant was, how can you sleep at night knowing that you make it possible for so many guilty people to go free? Do you ever think about the feelings of the people who loved the victims of these criminals that you got off?"

  "I don't free anyone, young man. Juries do. And when they have rendered their verdict of not guilty, I sleep with the clear conscience of a baby."

  The broad back of Wiggins thrust into the picture. "Time for only one more question."

  A young woman asked, "Theo, were you surprised to find out that you'd be getting this award from Maggie?"

  Janus tipped back his hat as he replied. "To paraphrase Nero Wolfe, there are two ways for a man to ruin a friendship. One is to lend a pal a lot of money. The other is to question the purity of a woman's gesture."

  The picture widened to show the crowd dispersing.

  "And that is all of it," Fields said. "Did you find what you were looking for, Johnny?"

  Bogdanovic's eyes were still directed to the screen. "Could you show me the reverse-angle shot again?"

  "I'm glad to. It was the best part of story," Fields said as a touch of a finger restored a picture to the screen and sent it spinning crazily backward. "It got Janus at an angle for the best of the questions—the one that wanted to know how Janus slept at night after getting a guilty person off."

  The tape stopped, then ran forward at regular speed.

  "Even from behind you can see by Janus's body language that he was really irritated," said Fields, touching the screen.

  "It was a nasty question," Dane said, "and obviously one the reporter intended to use to embarrass Theo."

  "I wouldn't know about that," Fields said, stopping the tape and freezing the scene on the screen. "But if that's what the kid had in mind, he blew the opportunity. When he asked his question he didn't have his camera ready to get Janus's angry reaction."

  "Have you ever seen that reporter at other news events?"

  "Nah. And I'd be surprised if he was a reporter. He's certainly not a professional photographer. Look at his camera. It's what you'd take with you on vacation. It shoots thirty-five millimeter, but the lens is fixed. And then there's the flash. It's built right into the camera. No pro would go on assignment with that. My guess is this kid was staying at the hotel, or maybe he was passing by. He also could have been a student at the School of Visual Arts. It's only a block from the hotel. He could have seen the crowd and the press outside the hotel and decided to get in on the excitement by pretending he was a reporter. It's ironic that he asked the best question of the night."

  "I may need a copy of this tape, Bobby."

  "If you want your own copy, you'll have to get in the ring and duke that matter out with my boss. But don't be misled by her size. She looks like a lightweight, but she packs a wallop."

  "Having had a preliminary bout with Ms. Rose, I am not looking forward to a rematch. But if I have to go to the mat to get this tape, I will."

  "What's on it that's so important? Is it some kind of clue?" "Possibly. So please take care that it doesn't get erased."

  WHEN THEY REACHED their car Bogdanovic said, "Maggie, I'm going to take you to lunch at my favorite restaurant, and then I'll try my hand at telling a mystery story."

  "Why shouldn't you? Everybody else seems to be doing it."

  "Of course, as a storyteller I am not in the same league as Arthur Conan Doyle and Rex Stout," he said, starting the engine. "Or Marian Pickering Henry, for that matter."

  "Who the hell is? May I assume that your story will be based on one of your actual cases?"

  "It will be part fact, part conjecture, part imagination."

  "There was a very good mystery in which the detective—a sergeant, by the way—said that it is not logic that a policeman needs, but imagination. He held that the only difference between a policeman and a criminal is that the cop uses imagination to solve rather than commit crimes. The book by Patrick McGinley was called Bogmail. That's Irish for blackmail."

  "There's a coincidence. The place we're going to for lunch is an Irish pub on East Fifty-seventh Street. Neary's."

  The car stopped at Forty-second Street and First Avenue as a traffic light permitted a throng of children in parochial school uniforms to cross for a visit to the United Nations.

  "As to detectives using their imaginations," Bogdanovic said, "a few years ago a retired Scotland Yard inspector who was in town on a visit told me the same thing. His name was Colin Whicher. He was a big help in solving a string of murders that were committed to cover up the one that counted to the killers. Fortunately, your friend Janus was engaged in other cases at the time. The murderer and his accomplice were convicted and their life sen-tences upheld on appeal."

  "Proving that justice can prevail in life as it always does in the final chapter of a mystery," Dane said as the car proceeded up First Avenue. "Everyone who reads a detective novel has no need to worry about some slick lawyer stepping in to screw up the ending by finding a loose end the detective failed to tie up."

  "That's what I want you to do after I tell you my story. I expect you to use your expertise as a reader of mysteries, and as a prosecutor, to point out loose ends."

  Ten minutes later, as a pretty red-haired waitress with an Irish lilt in her voice led them past a long bar at the front to a corner table draped in a heavy red cloth, Dane said, "What a delightful spot."

  Looking around the long, dimly lit room, she found maroon leather banquettes and dark wood-paneled walls decorated with pictures of Irish castles and many autographed photos of Irish politicians, including Ronald Reagan and Senator Ted Kennedy. On a staff fixed to a wall hung the orange, green, and white banner of the Republic of Ireland.

  "It's the quintessential New York restaurant," she added, "with just the right overlay of lace-curtain Irish!"

  Bogdanovic blushed and looked around to see if she might have been overheard.

  "Don't worry, John," she said, grinning as she patted his wrist reassuringly. "I'm allowed to say that because lace-curtain Irish is what I am."

  "The lunch menu is on the blackboard," he said, pointing to it on the wall above the doorway to the kitchen. "If you don't care for what's there, you can choose from the regular menu. You can never go wrong with Neary's lamb chops. We eat first. But no discussing the case. Then we'll have Irish coffee while I tell you my story."

  "PROPER IRISH COFFEE is made with brown sugar," Bogdanovic lectured. "The cream must be freshly whipped and added gently to the top, not stirred in. Serve in a war
med, fluted glass."

  Lifting hers, Dane said, "I offer a genuine Irish toast. May you be dancing with the angels in Heaven half an hour before the Devil even knows you're gone."

  Bogdanovic clinked his glass against hers, "And this is a Croatian toast:

  Here's to lying, cheating, stealing, and drinking.

  When you lie, lie to save a friend.

  When you cheat, cheat death.

  When you steal, steal a maiden's heart.

  When you drink, drink with me, my friend."

  Their sips of the coffee left thin mustaches of cream on their upper lips.

  "Now, Miss Dane," he said as they patted them off with large white napkins, "are you ready to hear my story?"

  "It had better not begin, 'It was a dark and stormy night.' "

  "Actually, it begins in a courtroom where a man is on trial for murder. The case has been dragging on for months, thanks to the clever maneuverings of the defense lawyer. It is now time for him to deliver his summation to the jury. Watching from the front row of the audience, as he has done every day of the proceedings, is a young man whom I shall call Vic."

  Dane smiled. "I see. As in vic-tim?

  "Actually, Vic is the son, or perhaps another relative, of the person the defendant is accused of having murdered. It was a killing that in no way can be justified. Although the evidence is circumstantial, the prosecution has presented a very strong case. But the defense lawyer has lived up to his reputation as the best mouthpiece in the country. He has punched holes in every piece of what the prosecution called in its summation a mountain of proof of guilt. The jury retires to deliberate, and after a couple of days returns with a verdict of not guilty."

  Dane took a sip of coffee. "Vic is understandably outraged."

  "Of course he is. And why not? First, his relative was murdered. Now, because of what he regards as legal trickery, he has been made a victim a second time. He trusted in the law and the law let him down. Justice has been denied him. But even worse, in Vic's mind, is the image of the killer's lawyer going about his business, apparently untroubled by getting a murderer off. Over and over in his mind, Vic asks the lawyer—"

  Dane cut him off. "He asks the question posed by the young man at the press conference. How can he sleep at night knowing that he makes it possible for so many guilty people to go free? Does he ever think about the feelings of the people who loved the victims of these criminals that he got off?" She paused with a look of horror on her face. "Good lord, John, is it possible that if Janus hadn't said that he slept with the clear conscience of a baby, the kid might not have shot him? Might that kid have been hoping for some sort of public apology?"

  "It wouldn't have mattered how Janus replied. The kid's mind was set on punishing Janus. He went there intending to kill him. If an opportunity hadn't presented itself that night, he would have kept trying until he succeeded."

  "You are assuming he was the person who took that shot at Theo at his ranch."

  "This is where my detective's imagination comes in. Suppose the shot hadn't gone awry. What if it had been intended to miss him? Imagine a scenario in which the kid wanted Janus to know he was being hunted. Imagine further that the shot was putting Janus on notice that someone was determined to kill him in an act of retribution, so that in the instant when Janus was facing death he would know why he was being killed. I expect that a search of the files at Janus's ranch will turn up evidence that he had been put on notice that he should expect to die and that when the moment came he would recognize his killer and the reason. I think that is why the killer asked those questions at the press conference. He wanted Janus in the last moment of life to remember him and, perhaps, also realize as he looked into the killer's face that he'd seen it many times before in a courtroom."

  "Okay. The kid brought a camera to the press conference in order to blend in with the press. What I do not understand is why he snapped that ghastly death photo and sent it to the Graphic."

  "This is conjecture, but I think it's likely that he thought it was important to record his achievement. If I may stretch my imagination even further—"

  "It's serving you well so far!"

  "I think it is possible that Vic wanted the photo published in order to let others who perceived themselves as the victims of miscarriages of justice know that a score had been settled with the symbol of a legal system that puts rights of criminals ahead of those of victims. Does that explanation make sense to you?"

  "It certainly does."

  "So, what do you think of my little murder story? Do you see any loose ends?"

  "The only thing missing is the actual name of the murderer."

  "I can't give you that until we search Janus's cases for the one that fits my plot."

  "Have you given your story a tide?"

  "How about 'The Phony Cameraman'?"

  "That's not bad. But might I suggest you plagiarize a Nero Wolfe title? There are two that fit your story: 'Counterfeit for Murder' and 'Disguise for Murder'."

  "Dare I try out my yarn on a certain chief of detectives?"

  "With the possible exception of the proprietor of the Usual Suspects bookstore and yours truly, I can't think of anyone more appreciative of an imaginative mystery story."

  LOOKING UP AT them as they came into his office, Goldstein said, "You look like a couple of cats who ate the canary. I trust you found something useful on the channel eleven videotape."

  "As a matter of fact," Dane said, 'John has come up with a nifty piece of deductive reasoning equal to anything demonstrated by Sherlock Holmes and Nero Wolfe."

  Bogdanovic blushed. "Maggie is much too generous."

  "I'll decide that," Goldstein said. "Let's hear it."

  As Bogdanovic sat on the edge of his chair in a posture so erect he looked like a marine at attention, Dane imagined he was Archie Goodwin reporting findings to Nero Wolfe in a brown-stone on West Thirty-fifth Street. The only things lacking to complete the scene were a bottle of beer clasped in Goldstein's hand, a vest straining to contain an extra one hundred and fifty pounds around Goldstein's middle, and four additional inches in height to bring Goldstein equal to Wolfe's five feet eleven inches. Nor did his pale blue shirt with a button-down collar arrest her eyes as would Wolfe's invariable bright canary yellow.

  When Bogdanovic ended his story, Goldstein said, "I think you are on to something, Johnny. Your reasoning about the killer pretending to be a member of the press is sound. It's a damn lucky thing Bobby Fields captured the guy's face on tape."

  Bogdanovic grimaced. "To get a copy we'll need a subpoena."

  Goldstein shrugged. "Consider it done. What's next?"

  "I intend to take Leibholz and Reiter up to Janus's ranch to help locate a file Janus was keeping of the threats he received from people who didn't care much for his record as the great defender."

  "YOU PROBABLY DON'T remember, Miss Dane," said Detective Al Leibholz from the front seat of the car, "but I was a witness in one of your trials a few years ago. It was the big child murders case. You put the perp away for three consecutive life terms."

  "I remember the case, of course," Dane said. "Horrible! But there were a lot of police witnesses."

  "Fifteen of us, actually. My partner at the time was Officer Scott Gordon. We were working radio patrol and found the third of the victims, an eleven-year-old boy, in a vacant lot on the Lower East Side. Our testimony was all cut-and-dried, so there was no reason for either of us to stick out in your mind. That's just the way it is with uniforms. One cop looks like every other one."

  "A situation which you and Red have corrected by creating your own inimitable styles," Bogdanovic teased. "Detective Leibholz in Armani suits and silk ties by Fabienne and Red Reiter in custom-made duds from the Urban Cowboy."

  Driving the car, Reiter said, "That's right. The same place where Janus bought his outfits. I saw him there once. He was being fitted for boots. He ordered six pairs that had to have cost him the equivalent of my salary for a couple of months."<
br />
  "Proving that crime pays," Bogdanovic said, "if you are a defense lawyer by the name of Theodore Roosevelt Janus."

  "So that's what the middle initial stood for," Reiter said. "I never knew he was named after Teddy. Now I understand why he went for the western look clothing wise. I suppose he figured it helped boost his reputation with juries as a tough character if he looked like a Rough Rider. The funny thing, though, is that I always thought he looked more like the star attraction of Buffalo Bill's old-time Wild West shows. You know, all hat and no cattle, as they say out in Texas."

  "I believe you will change your opinion," said Dane, "once you've seen Theo's ranch. And there was nothing phony about his admiration for Teddy Roosevelt."

  PRESENTLY, THEY PASSED beneath the Little Misery sign and up the driveway, watched by half a dozen horses behind white fences.

  As they arrived in front of the house, David Kolker ambled toward them from the stables. "Back again, Miss Dane. Are you making progress in finding out who killed Mr. Janus?"

  "I believe so," she said. "We need to get into the house."

  "Go right ahead. The door's open."

  As they walked down the long corridor toward the office, Leibholz's eyes explored the pictures of Janus drawn by courtroom artists and said, "There's no doubt whose house this is."

  Stepping into the large room that was both an office and a museum to Janus's namesake, Reiter let out a low whistle as he looked at youthful Teddy Roosevelt as Dakota Territory cowboy. In a suit, vest, and lank bow tie, he struck a formal pose beside the desk he had used, and which had been passed on for the use of every police commissioner who followed him as Teddy moved onward and upward.

  Gazing at these artifacts, Reiter said to Dane, "I see what you mean about Janus's fondness for Teddy being genuine."

  Standing before the portrait of Janus, Leibholz said, "He was pretty fond of himself, too."

  "We're not here as sightseers, folks," Bogdanovic grumbled. "So let's get down to work."

  Leibholz looked at the rows of file cabinets. "The man must have saved every piece of paper he ever touched. Talk about your search for a needle in a haystack!"