by Blake Pierce
She’d been vaguely aware of this, too, but had opted to ignore it. She figured it would never really amount to much of anything. If anything at all, she figured she might be used as a scapegoat if the case went south.
“What can I do for you, Hank?”
“I got a new gig, if you hadn’t heard. I’m working down at the jazz radio station. Not the one that sounds like it’s being broadcast through a tin can, mind you. The good one! The one that interviewed Duke Wellington a few weeks ago.”
“That’s amazing, Hank! Sounds like a good fit. But still…I’m a little busy and—”
“Yeah, I know, I know. Listen…I need you on my show. This hatchet killer business is getting crazy, but the news of a woman cop chasing after him is even more exciting. It’s a story that writes itself.”
“I don’t know, Hank. First of all, I don’t think there’s any way my captain would approve it. Secondly…this isn’t about my fame…”
“Of course it’s not! It’s about keeping the city safe, and about showing how women are just as capable as men in all things! Look, Ava…I’ve got a slot open at noon today. Two hours from now. I really think you should do it. If you need me to, I can talk to your captain. He’d be a fool to turn down this great, free publicity about how the NYPD is all about equality.”
I don’t know about the “all about equality” part, she thought. And on the heels of that, there was another thing. She wondered if going on the radio could potentially bring any other witnesses forward. Could she use this as a tool to bring more attention to the Hatchet Killer case without specifically mentioning it?
“The best I can do is ask him,” Ava said, surprised to find that Hank’s final pitch had worked. “If he okays it, I’ll see you at noon. But if he says no, I can’t argue it too much. I’m already on thin ice.”
“Well, I guess that’s all I can ask,” Hank said. “Good talking to you, Ava. Hopefully I’ll see you soon!”
Ava handed the receiver back to Gibb. As he placed it back on the cradle, he said: “Mind if I throw my twin coppers into the pot?”
“Sure.”
“He gave me the gist before I handed the phone to you. Captain Minard will go for it, trust me. He’ll pretend like he hates the idea, but he’s a smart man. It’s great publicity for the department, and he knows it.”
This did make her feel significantly better. It allowed her to walk toward Minard’s office with something resembling confidence. She was even able to drown out the snickers and crass stares of the male officers as she passed, still teasing her about her morning’s blunder. She came to his door, took a deep breath, and knocked.
***
When she entered the station, she could hear Duke Ellington’s “Black and Tan Fantasy” being played down the hall. She followed the sound, checked in with a perky receptionist, and found herself being escorted into the recording booth.
Hank Armstrong was there to meet her with open arms. “Didn’t I tell you it would work out?” he said proudly.
“You did,” she agreed. She looked all around the room, somewhat mystified. To be able to play and listen to jazz music all day and get paid for it…well, that would be the bee’s knees.
“I know you’re busy with the case,” Hank said as he sat down behind a long desk filled with strange mechanical boxes, dials, and wires—none of which she understood. “So after this song, we’ll get right to it, I’ve already approved it with the station managers, and they’re just as excited as I am.”
Ava nodded, looking at the microphones on the desk. When Hank pointed to the other chair at the end of the long desk, she sat in it. Her eyes were still locked on the microphones. Was she really about to do this? Was she really about to turn this adventure into something the public would now be in on? It seemed wrong, in a way. She’d taken the gig in a sort of memorial for Clarence and now she would be speaking to the entire city about it.
“Black and Tan Fantasy” wound down and Hank looked at her, giving her a wink. She watched as he flicked a button and leaned in toward the microphone in front of him.
“All right, New York…that, of course, was ‘Black and Tan Fantasy’ by the one and only Duke Ellington. And we’ll have plenty more just like it in a bit. But for right now, I’ve got a special treat for all of you. Right now, I have in the studio a truly amazing woman—a woman with a jazz background herself. But for just a moment, we’re not going to talk about jazz. Instead, we’re going to do some chinning with Mrs. Ava Gold, the newest addition to the New York City Police Department’s Women’s Bureau. Mrs. Gold, thanks for joining us today!”
“Of course,” Ava said, carefully speaking into the microphone. She could not remember the last time she’d been so excited and nervous all at once. “It’s nice to be here.”
“Now, Mrs. Gold…I’m sorry, Officer Gold, there are rumors swirling all around this great city of ours that you have been placed on one of the most important cases currently being investigated within the NYPD. Is there any truth to that?”
She knew she’d have to choose her words carefully. This was her opportunity to correct the mistake she’d made with Stubbs this morning—and to prove to Minard that he had made the right decision in allowing this interview.
“That’s right, Hank,” she finally said. “The Women’s Bureau is an integral part of the NYPD, though it doesn’t often get much attention. But what the public misses is how the supervisors treat the women of the WB as equals. And by working on this case, I think that shows the NYPD’s genuine interest in equality and fair rights for all.”
“What about the public? The everyday man-on-the-street? Do they seem to be as interested in this same equality?”
“Not so much,” Ava said. “It’s hard for some to wrap their heads around the idea that a woman can be just as effective an officer as a man. And honestly, I get it. Change doesn’t come overnight. But the NYPD is taking the necessary steps to be the guiding light for it.”
“Yeah, it sure sounds like it. Now, as I said earlier, you and I have a bit of a history through some of the city’s jazz clubs. You were quite the singer not too long ago…as recently as two years ago, correct?”
“Yes, it’s been about that long.”
“Any interest in returning to that, or do you see yourself sticking with the WB as a career?”
“Well, that’s the beautiful thing about jazz, right?” she said. “It never leaves you. it’s always there and it’s always speaking. So I don’t see why I can’t have both.”
“Well said, Officer Gold. Now, I’ll open the lines up to anyone who wants to ask Officer Gold questions about her job with the WB. It won’t last long, because she’s got work to get back to, so call now, would ya?” He gave the number a few times and then muted his microphone. Hank gave Ava a nod of appreciation and said: “That was golden! Short and sweet and by God, you kissed the rear end of the NYPD without seeming obvious. Great job!”
The first call came in and Hank took it right away. “You’re on with Officer Ava Gold of the NYPD’s WB. Say that a couple times fast, huh? Who’s on the line, and what’s your question?”
A timid-sounding woman spoke up. She sounded slightly older and almost scared to be on the radio. “Officer Gold, I was wondering if you’re allowed handcuffs and a gun while on the streets.”
“Good question,” Ava said, wondering how to spin this one so it didn’t look like the NYPD was sending her out unprepared. She decided to give something of a non-answer. “Well, starting the WB is like starting with the plain old NYPD. When you’re out on patrol, officers are given cuffs, a standard-issued department pistol, and a ticket book. In the WB, we’re also given whistles, and that’s what we’re told to use most often. This is merely so that the NYPD is better able to protect their women officers while letting the males get involved in the more life-threatening situations.”
Hank gave her a thumbs-up as he took the next call. “You’re on with Ava Gold! What’s your question?”
It was a
man this time, and she could hear barbed humor in his voice. “Yes, Officer Gold. I was wondering how you have time to raise your children and have dinner ready for your husband if you’re out pretending to be a cop?”
“So we’ll skip that one right away,” Hank said into the microphone. “Let that last caller be an example of how not to act in the face of equality, folks. Next caller, you’re on the air. Who are you and what’s your qu—”
“I apologize,” a man’s hurried voice said, “but is there any way to have me not be on the air? I need to speak with Officer Gold right away. It’s quite important.”
Hank gave her a puzzled look as he said, “Who are you, caller?”
“She visited me this morning and I gave her a name and address. That’s all I’ll say.”
Ava nodded quickly and whispered, “Yes, take it off the air, please.” That all-too-familiar jolt of excitement was back and she hoped it actually meant something this time.
Thinking quickly, Hank said, “And hey, folks, we need to go as this gentleman is asking. Seems this is an important matter. But let’s thank Officer Ava Gold of the NYPD WB for stopping in and send her off with ‘Bell Hoppin’ Blues’ from Paul Whiteman and his Orchestra.”
He flicked a few buttons and nodded to Ava, sliding her the candlestick phone on his desk. “Take it on this. And you’re off the air.”
“Hello?” Ava asked. “Dr. Huffman?”
“Officer Gold, could you come back to my office?” he asked, sounding urgent. “I have some information you may need.”
“Can you just give it to me now?”
“No,” he said, the urgency even thicker now “I think it’s best we have a face-to-face meeting.
“Of course,” she said, already getting to her feet. “Give me half an hour.”
She slid the phone back to Hank and did her best to shift mental gears. “Thanks for this opportunity, Hank. Sorry it was cut short.”
“Glad to do it! Was that some sort of lead or something?”
“Don’t know yet. You never can tell with this job. I’m starting to find it’s a little unpredictable.”
“Ha!” Hank said, slapping at the desk. “Just like jazz!”
“That’s not too far from the truth,” Ava said.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Ava thought Huffman seemed different than he had earlier in the morning. He looked more worried and as if the day had beaten the hell out of him even though it was only 1:10 in the afternoon. He also looked irritated. Yet when Ava sat down in the chair she’d occupied just six and a half hours ago, the expression on his face became almost apologetic.
“I’m so sorry to do this to you,” he said. “But as it turns out, I did not give you a complete list of possible suspects this morning. This was no fault of my own. There are three other head doctors here, and one of them is currently on a ship headed to Paris for a few weeks. Neither I nor the other lead doctor thought to even consider this other doctor’s files because he does not typically deal with cases regarding schizophrenia. I doubt anyone you spoke with on the phone last night would have considered it either. His cases tend to all center around acts of violence—either to the patient’s own self or to others.”
She almost understood such a slip-up. After all, she’d looked through countless names she’d been given on the phone last night from several hospitals and having only twelve names, they’d all sort of run together as she’d searched the NYPD records.
“But I take it you found something of note in some of his records?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” he said. “I would have never even thought of it had I not met with one of my regular patients today. My patient mentioned playing poker for peanuts with another patient—a patient who was discharged a month ago. The name rang a bell, but it was not someone I ever dealt with directly.”
“Who is the patient?”
Huffman slid a folder over to her, which she opened right away. A blurry photograph of a man who looked to be in his early thirties stared back at her.
“His name is William Gault. He was admitted a year and a half ago when he admitted to murdering his mother. No one ever took him seriously, though, mainly because of how he described it. He said it was like a dream, like he could barely remember it at all. But he described how he did it, where he did it, and on and on. He even told where the body could be found but it turned out to be a lie. Her body was never found and there was never a shred of evidence connecting him to the disappearance.
“As he stayed here for several months, it became clear that he was likely imagining the whole thing. That, or his mother left him and her imagined death was his way of coping with it. He did seem to have a few mental instabilities and as sad as it sounds, it isn’t all that uncommon for single parents to abandon a mentally disabled child at an older age. If that avenue of thinking is indeed true, his adding in that he murdered her gave him a semblance of control over what had happened. Or, at least, that’s what we thought.”
“And based on all of that…he was discharged last month?” Ava asked, aghast.
“Yes. He was completely rehabilitated and started accepting the fact that his mother was simply missing—that she may have even just left him.”
“So why call me at all?” she asked.
“Because I fear his doctor made a mistake in releasing him.” He leaned over, flipped a few pages in the folder over, and pointed to a line near the top of the initial interviews William Gault had taken part in when arriving at the asylum.
Ava read it out loud, each word like a little explosion. “He claims to have killed his mother with a hatchet. And then he talked about taking that hatchet out into the streets, out in the midst of a group of women holding a political march. He wanted to kill them, one by one, putting the hatcher right in their faces.” She sighed here, closing the folder. “My God. Doctor Huffman, can I see the room he stayed in while he was here?”
“Yes, of course.”
They left his office and he led Ava down a well-lit corridor. The smells and noises of the place did not bother her as much anymore. The weight of the revelation Huffman had just handed her seemed to block everything else out completely. After a right turn at the end of the hall, they came to what she supposed was the living quarters for the patients. She heard singing, screaming, and cackling coming from behind several of the doors.
Huffman stopped at the next-to-last door on the right. He opened it up and ushered her inside. The room was quite unremarkable, and had not yet been claimed since William Gault had been discharged. The cot that had served as his bed had been stripped of sheets. There was no window and nothing with sharp edges. Even the cot had its edges sanded down. The room smelled of bleach and stale sweat. Other than that, there was nothing. White walls, plain wooden floors, bland lighting overhead.
To think that someone not in their right mind had lived in this small space—someone who may have killed their mother—was chilling. Hearing the muted sounds elsewhere from the hallway only made it that much worse. She suppressed a shiver as she took a look around.
She walked to the cot and checked it for bloodstains or any sort of hiding spaces but saw nothing. But as she was about to walk away, she did see something…it was small and barely there at all, but it was there. On the wall, partially hidden by the part of the cot that held the mattress, something had been carved into the wall. It was not deep and very small, causing Ava to lean over the cot to read it. Dead hands for dead flowers.
It had been etched three times, one right over the other. Each line was no more than half an inch tall and the third one in the row could barely be seen at all.
“Dead hands for dead flowers,” she said. “Any idea what it might mean?”
“Not right off hand, no. Officer, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes, actually,” she said. “I need the last known address of Willian Gault. And I need to use a phone.”
They hurried back to his desk, where Huffman searched Gault’s fold
er for last known address. As he jotted it down, Ava used the candlestick phone on Huffman’s desk to call the precinct. When Gibb answered, Ava found it hard to believe that she’d been standing in front of him, using his phone, less than two hours ago. This was shaping up to be a long day.
Gibb made it less than three words into his answering statement before Ava spoke up. “Gibb, it’s Ava Gold. Can you check to see if Frank Wimbly is around?”
“That’s easy,” Gibb said. “I know for a fact he’s not. He was called out on something about half an hour ago.
“Do you know why or where?”
“Sorry, but no. He seemed very secretive about it.”
Her first thought was: What the hell sort of partner is always missing or going off to do his own thing. Yet, wasn’t that pretty much what she was doing? So who was she to judge in such a way?
“Thanks anyway,” she said, already hanging up before she had gotten both words out. When she was done, Huffman tore a sheet of paper from one of his notebooks and handed the sheet to her. With William Gault’s last known address in hand, she headed back out of the asylum for the second time that day, hoping she wasn’t headed for her second mistake of the day as well.
***
Detective Frank Wimbly had seen his fair share of dead bodies during his time as a detective, but the one he was currently looking at made his guts go cold. It was bad enough that he knew the victim, but being that he had also essentially worked with the victim made it so much worse. He hunkered down over the body while two officers behind kept the crowds away.
“How much longer before the friggin’ wagon gets here?” Frank called over his shoulder.
“Maybe ten minutes, I’d guess,” one of the officers said.
The other officer spoke up, and he sounded terrified. “Might want to put that to the back of your mind,” the copper said. “Captain Minard is heading this way.”
