Samantha, alerted by the doorman and with the protection of Loggins in the apartment, simply opened. She stared at Cross-Wade, eye level. In a way, she was disappointed. She'd expected the senior man to be tall, tough-looking, something out of a movie. But only his trenchcoat fit the image.
"Cross-Wade," he said. Like Loggins, he looked at Samantha's hair. It was auburn.
"Come in," Samantha said.
They went to the living room and joined Loggins. "I know it may seem unusual for me to rush over here, Mrs. Shaw," Cross-Wade explained, while removing his coat and placing it neatly on a chair, "and I apologize for the inconvenience. But Mr. Loggins called with a most important point and I wanted to speak to you myself."
Loggins had said little, not wanting to pre-empt the boss, so Samantha had no idea what Cross-Wade was talking about. "I appreciate your coming," she said, feeling it was the only thing she could say.
Cross-Wade sat down. So did Samantha. Both instantly felt the tension rise. There was something unspoken between them, with both afraid to hope, yet afraid not to.
"Mrs. Shaw," Cross-Wade began, "has Mr. Loggins told you anything of our interest?"
"Just that he got my name from Sergeant Yang. After he called you he went over the sergeant's report with me, checking facts. He said he wanted to wait for you."
"And you got the feeling that something important had happened."
"He said there was something new. I…I really don't understand this."
"Mrs. Shaw," Cross-Wade said, looking at Samantha grimly, "we have a problem. It may be related to your situation."
Samantha sighed. She didn't want to bring up a point prematurely, but had to. "Mr. Loggins told me you're from homicide," she said.
"That's correct."
"What does this have to do with that?"
"I'll be glad to explain, madam. But I must caution you—it's a very disturbing story. You must brace yourself."
"I'm ready," Samantha replied, almost in a whisper. "After the last few weeks, I'm ready for anything."
Cross-Wade framed his words carefully. He wanted to be as gentle as possible, yet precise. "Madam," he asked, "have you ever heard of a man named Bleuler?"
"No."
"He was an early experimenter in psychiatry. Brilliant chap. I mention him because he devised a number of categories of the mental illness known as schizophrenia. Are you familiar with that?"
"I've heard of it, of course," Samantha answered. "I took a psychology course once, but I really don't know much about it."
"Neither do I. But there's a subcategory known as anniversary-excitement schizophrenia. You probably haven't heard of that one."
"Afraid not."
"It's a rare thing. It's when people have a disturbance only on a particular calendar day. It's usually related to something that's happened on that day in their past."
"I see," Samantha said. "Like feeling sad on the anniversary of someone's death."
"Precisely. But it sometimes goes beyond feeling sad. These people can do strange things."
"Like?"
"Some of them can kill."
Samantha didn't react. The whole idea of murder was outside her frame of reference. Illness she understood. Maybe even treachery or cheating. But murder? That happened in other families, other worlds.
"What else can they do?" she asked.
"Why don't we stick to killing," Cross-Wade replied, and saw the shock in Samantha's eyes. It wasn't the answer she'd wanted. "I know that may be frightening," he told her.
"To put it mildly."
"Well, one cannot hide from the truth. That's what we're talking about. Our police psychologists believe that someone with this condition is loose. Let's call him a calendar schizophrenic for short. His crimes occur on one calendar day of the year. That day, Mrs. Shaw, is December fifth."
"Marty!" Samantha blurted out. She felt the blood rush from her head. For a moment, consciousness seemed to melt away. Hold on, she told herself. Bear up!
She recovered. She'd be bigger than they expected her to be. "My husband's birthday," she said, trying to control the quiver in her voice. "I think you knew that. It was in Sergeant Yang's report."
"That's what attracted us," Cross-Wade answered in a soft, healing voice. "That and his…unusual past. And now something else."
"What's that?"
"Mrs. Shaw, this individual we seek is a murderer. His victims are all women. They all have the same color hair. That color is auburn."
"Oh, no, no, no," Samantha cried. "I can believe almost anything, but not that my Marty…Marty…is out to kill me. I may not know him as well as I'd thought, but I know him well enough. No, not that. Not…"
She stopped. She looked at Cross-Wade, then Loggins, then back at Cross-Wade. They'd seen all this before. She knew it. She felt it. They'd seen the wives who deny, who can't face, who reject. They'd seen the mothers who told them "But my Johnny's a good boy." They'd seen all those who shout no, only to admit later that it was yes all along.
"I know how you feel," Cross-Wade said. "I'd feel the same way." He saw the denial fade from Samantha's face, replaced by a valiant attempt to stay calm.
"Tell me the whole story," she asked.
"All right. It's best that you know, that you understand." Cross-Wade slowly got up and walked over to the part of the sectional couch where Samantha was sitting. He sat down next to her, trying to show his concern, his feeling. "There have been six of these murders," he revealed to her, "one in each of the last six years. All have been carried out with a blunt instrument and a chain."
Samantha winced.
"May I ask if your husband has any weapons?"
"Not that I know of."
"Does he have a bicycle chain?"
"No. He doesn't even have a bike."
"Let me go on. These murders have occurred in North America, the last three in or near New York. We expect another woman to die the night of December fifth."
"That's the night of Marty's party," Samantha said. "He insisted on that night."
"Insisted?"
"Yes. Even though it was during the week."
Cross-Wade thought that odd. All the murders had occurred at night. Why would Marty, if he was the murderer, fill his night with a party? Of course, Cross-Wade reasoned, he might be changing his tactics and planning the murder in the daytime. But if Samantha was the target, he certainly wouldn't kill her during the day, then have a party at home that night, without her. Contradictions were starting to appear, but Cross-Wade pushed ahead.
"I deduced that the December fifth date had some special significance," he said, "so I had my people check back in criminal history. We found what we were looking for."
"Marty?"
Samantha was almost frantic. Cross-Wade held up his hand to calm her. "Let me continue," he gently insisted, and she settled back. "It seems," he went on, "that there was a murder just outside Omaha on December fifth, 1952. The victim was an unemployed laborer. He'd bought his older son a set of electric trains…"
Samantha gasped.
"What's wrong?"
"Trains."
"What do you mean, madam?"
"Marty bought trains."
"What trains?"
"Just recently he brought home electric trains. He set them up on the rug. He stained it. There, you can see the stain." She pointed to a grease spot on the carpet.
"Did he say why he wanted the trains?" Cross-Wade asked.
"Just that he'd always wanted trains. It was a big hobby. That sort of thing. He ran them, let me run them, then put them away."
"I'll want to see them," Cross-Wade said, "but let me continue with the background."
"Please." Samantha was breathing heavily now, and the news about the trains even made Cross-Wade feel a sense of lunging anticipation. Yet once again he tempered it. Coincidence, he reminded himself, was the curse of criminal cases. Don't get trapped. Don't get overconfident.
"This unemployed gentleman came home with the
trains and gave them to the boy," Cross-Wade continued. "His wife resented the gift. With all their money worries, she couldn't understand spending on electric trains. They argued. It got violent. The wife picked up a hammer and struck her husband in the head. He fell, but apparently was still alive. So she choked him with her younger son's bicycle chain."
"My God," Samantha whispered.
"The older boy witnessed the whole thing," Cross-Wade said.
"What happened to those kids?" Samantha asked.
"They were taken by relatives and separated. The mother was sent to prison, and died there a few years later. We haven't been able to track down even one member of the family. They simply melted into the landscape. The whereabouts of the boys is unknown."
"What was their name?"
"Nelson. The older boy was Frankie Nelson. Of course, it could be different now."
"And how does this…?"
"I'm getting to that. The mother had auburn hair…like yours." Samantha squirmed at those words. "We believe," Cross-Wade continued, "that the older son is the calendar schizophrenic, that the date December fifth triggers an uncontrollable frenzy in his mind. He seeks out auburn-haired women because they represent his mother. In his mind, they become his mother. The rest of the year he's probably perfectly normal. We don't know why he began killing only six years ago, but our psychologists tell us almost anything is possible in these cases."
"And you believe," Samantha said somberly, "that Marty is this man."
"I didn't say that," Cross-Wade replied. "It's just something worth looking into. He would be about the right age… although we can't be sure of your husband's real age since he's altered so many personal facts. The December fifth date is obviously significant to him. Witness his insistence that the party be held on that date. And you have auburn hair."
"Why can't you check it?" Samantha asked.
"I'm not sure what you mean, madam."
"Well, there are medical records and pictures. A picture of this Frankie Nelson should tell you if Marty resembles him."
"Of course, but there are no pictures. The family albums disappeared. Taken by relatives, no doubt. The medical people are gone, and with them their records. This was a small community. Very informal. Some evidence from the murder trial was kept, but it tells us nothing. We assume that Frank Nelson grew up, left whomever he was living with, and went into the world. The only thing we have is a newspaper photo from the day of the father's funeral. It shows Frankie and his younger brother in the distance. Much too blurry to be of use. So you see, we have no practical way of checking your husband by going into the past."
"Yes, I see."
"We'd pieced together the information we do have through routine police work. What was missing was a real suspect. We now have that because you were wise enough to come to the police."
Strangely, Samantha felt suddenly revolted. Cross-Wade had meant his remark as a compliment, but it triggered painful thoughts. She had gotten Marty into trouble. Well, he deserved it…maybe. Maybe. She still was a wife who'd betrayed her husband. She couldn't shake the thought, the shame. Yes, it was irrational. She knew she shouldn't feel that way. But if it was irrational, it was also understandable. It was that middle-class upbringing again. The family comes first. We don't wash our dirty linen outside.
She suddenly resented Cross-Wade, loathed the little man, blamed the messenger for the message. This cop had come to tell her she might be murdered by her own husband, by the man she'd waited for, loved, revered, whose baby she carried. Who was he? Who was he to come in, with his clunking assistant, and say these filthy things? She didn't realize it, but her face was melting into hostility and contempt. Loggins spotted it. So did Cross-Wade.
"I understand your reaction," Cross-Wade said quietly, sounding like the grandfather he would never have a chance to be. "I'm sure you resent what I've said, but I can only tell you what we know. This is only an inquiry. No one is being charged. It was important that you know the background. My main concern now is you and your safety."
He'd said the right things. He was on his way back to winning her trust.
"What should I do?" she asked, realizing how erratic her feelings were becoming.
"Very little. It's what we should do. We're going to follow your husband and study his movements. Something he does might tell us what he's planning, if anything. I do hope he's innocent."
Cross-Wade really didn't. In fact, he fervently hoped he'd found his man. His feelings were a spinning mix of genuine concern for Samantha and sparkling visions of glory, of last-minute capture. But he had to say those right things. Only experience taught him what words to use, what pauses to insert, what expressions to register. It was all critical, all part of the art.
"And," he continued to Samantha, "I'd like permission to search the apartment."
"Why?"
"First, to get a feel for the way your husband lives. That might tell us something. Second, to see if anything reminds us of young Frankie Nelson's life in Omaha. Third, because we might find something even you don't know is here."
"Like what?"
"Like a hammer and chain."
"Go ahead," Samantha said.
Cross-Wade had Samantha sign a statement agreeing to the search, for it might come up in court later. After all, Samantha could turn out to be a hostile witness, even involved in the crimes rather than a victim. Cross-Wade had seen that twist too often. "Please accompany me," he requested. "I may have questions."
Samantha started leading Cross-Wade and Loggins around the apartment. Her resentment receded. She knew her own life might be at stake.
"The trains," Cross-Wade suggested. Samantha led the detectives to a closet where Marty had stored the electric trains. Cross-Wade examined them, handling almost every piece, studying small details. "Remarkable," he finally said, turning to Loggins. "Arthur, what do you make of these?"
Loggins examined the trains. "Old Lionel," he replied. "When they were still the original company. This stuff comes from the fifties."
"Did Marty tell you why he bought an old set?" Cross-Wade asked Samantha.
"He said he preferred the older models. He said the old Lionel stuff was terrific."
"He's right," Loggins agreed.
"Arthur," Cross-Wade asked, "is there any record of the trains that caused the fatal dispute in the Nelson household?"
"No, sir. I remember reading about that. They kept the trains as evidence at the trial, then gave them to Frankie to keep. But there was no description."
"What about sales receipts?"
"None turned up. There was a notation that the store where they were bought went out of business a few years later."
"Damn," Cross-Wade said quietly. History had even blotted this out. He could have compared Marty's trains to the ones owned by Frankie Nelson, but the lack of records made that impossible. Then a thought struck him. "Mrs. Shaw, are you sure your husband bought these recently?"
"Of course. They weren't here."
"No, you misunderstand. I know they weren't here. But are you sure he didn't own them?"
"Well…"
"He could've kept them in his office, or somewhere else."
"What are you suggesting?"
"That these may be the very trains Frank Nelson owned as a child, the very trains that led to his father's death."
Samantha stepped back, as if the trains were contaminated. "Why would he bring these things home?" she asked.
"I don't know," Cross-Wade admitted. Once again he turned to Loggins. "Arthur, there couldn't be that many used-train stores in New York. Make a list of these trains. Check to see if anyone has bought them recently."
"Yes, sir," Loggins replied.
Cross-Wade entered the bedroom. He was startled by the bizarre arrangement, especially the headboard's being against the radiator and the bureau's blocking a window. His eyes focused on the gaudy picture frame. "Interesting," he commented.
"I know what you're thinking," Samantha said. "
It's God-awful."
"That's a matter of taste, madam."
"This is Marty's taste."
"Beg pardon?"
"He insisted on re-doing the room this way. Recently."
"How recently?"
"Oh, a couple of weeks, I think."
"Why?"
"He said he wanted to try it, that he saw this in an architectural magazine."
"He must've been joking."
"It didn't sound like a joke, any more than the trains did."
"With all the room layouts, why this one, madam?"
"I don't know," Samantha sighed.
"Has he done anything else…unusual?"
"Nothing that I can think of. I mean, nothing obvious like that."
"Is that his desk?" Cross-Wade asked, pointing.
"Yes."
"May I look through it?"
Samantha gestured her approval. Cross-Wade searched the desk and found only a batch of normal business papers. "Nothing here," he said, "but I wouldn't expect anything unusual. No one leaves clues in a desk at home."
He went through the rest of the apartment. "Only the trains give cause for suspicion," he finally pronounced. "But there's certainly nothing decisive."
"I really didn't think so," Samantha said.
"What we have here is a pattern of circumstance," Cross-Wade continued. "It needs more investigation."
Again, Samantha had no firm answers. The agony of doubt, of suspicion, continued.
Cross-Wade prepared to leave. But, before he did, he had some firm advice for Samantha. "Madam," he said, "I must ask your cooperation."
"Of course."
"Please listen carefully. Change nothing in your schedule. That might just tip Mr. Shaw that he's being watched. Try to show happiness. Talk about the trip you've planned. Oh, by the way, have you told anyone that you've seen us?"
"No."
"Good. Of course, the doormen downstairs know. Before I leave I'll instruct them. I have ways to influence people to cooperate. Your husband must not find out we were here. Now, on December fifth…"
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