Case Pending

NINE

Because afterward, thought Morgan (both Morgans), there would be a time when Sue would look at him, that steady look of hers, and want the truth. And he had better know what he was going to say. He wondered if he could tell her half the truth convincingly (my God, no, I never meant-but when he got mad and pulled a gun, I-and afterward, I knew I couldn’t tell the police the whole story, you know-) and go on forever after keeping the rest a secret. He’d never been very good at keeping secrets from Sue. But a big thing like this-and there was also the consideration, wouldn’t it be kinder, fairer, not to put this on her conscience as it would be on his? Let her go on thinking it was-accident. Because he guessed it would be on his conscience to some extent. You couldn’t be brought up and live half your life by certain basic ethics and forget about them overnight.

All the while he was thinking round and about that, at the back of his mind, he was talking to this woman, this Mrs. Cotter, quite normally-must have been, or she’d have been eying him oddly by this time. He saw that he had also been taking notes in his casebook of a few things she’d told him, and his writing looked quite normal too. As usual now, he was having some trouble getting away: people liked to talk about these things. You had to be polite and sometimes they remembered something useful. He managed it at last, backing down the steps while he thanked her for the third time.

His car was around the corner, the only parking space there’d been half an hour ago; now, of course, there were two or three empty spaces almost in front of the building. As he came by, a long low black car was sliding quiet and neat into the curb there. The car registered dimly with him, because you didn’t see many like it, but he was past when the driver got out. It was the car, a vague memory of it, pulled Morgan’s head round six steps farther on. The driver was standing at the curb lighting a cigarette, in profile to him.

Morgan stopped. Absurdly, his mouth went dry and his heart missed a few beats, hurried to catch up. You damn fool, he said to himself. They’re not mind readers, for God’s sake! But, he thought confusedly, but- An omen? Today of all days, just run into one-like this. Casual.

That was a man from Homicide, a headquarters man from Kenneth Gunn’s old department. Lieutenant Luis Mendoza of Homicide. Morgan had met him, twice-three times-at the Gunns’, and again when their jobs had coincided, that Hurst business, when one of the deserted wives had shot herself and two kids.

Luis Mendoza. Besides the childish panic, resentment he had felt before rose hot in Morgan’s throat: unreasonable resentment at the blind fate which handed one man rewards he hadn’t earned, didn’t particularly deserve-and also more personal resentment for the man.

Mendoza, with all that money, and not a soul in the world but himself to spend it on: no responsibilities, no obligations! Gunn had talked about Mendoza: ordinary backstreet family, probably not much different from some of these in neighborhoods like this-nothing of what you’d call background… and the wily grandfather, and all the money. What the hell right had he to pretend such to-the-manner-born-if indefinable-insolence? Just the money; all that money. Do anything, have anything he damned pleased, or almost. And by all accounts, didn’t he! Clothes-and it wasn’t that Morgan wanted to look like a damned fop, the way Mendoza did, but once in a while it would be nice to get a new suit more than once in five years, and not off the rack at a cheap store when there was a sale on. That silver-gray herringbone Mendoza was wearing hadn’t cost a dime less than two hundred dollars. An apartment somewhere, not in one of the new smart buildings out west where you paid three hundred a month for the street name and three closet-sized rooms, but the real thing-a big quiet place, spacious, and all for himself, everything just so, custom furniture probably, air-conditioning in summer, maid service, the works. It was the kind of ostentation that was like an iceberg, most of it invisible: that was Mendoza, everything about him. Nothing remotely flashy, all underplayed, the ultraconservative clothes, that damned custom-built car you had to look at twice to know it for what it was, even the manner, the man himself-that precise hairline mustache, the way he lit a cigarette, the A womanizer, too: he would be. And easy to think they were only after the money: not, for some reason, altogether true. God knew what women found so fascinating in such men. But he remembered Gunn saying that, a little rueful as became a solid family man, a little indulgent because he liked Mendoza, a little envious the way any man would be-Poker and women, after hours, that’s Luis, his two hobbies you might say, and I understand he’s damn good at both… A lot of women would be fools for such a man, not that he was so handsome, but he-knew the script, like an actor playing a polished scene. And all for casual amusement, all for Mendoza, and when he was bored, the equally polished exit, and forget it.

Gunn had said other things about Mendoza. That he was a brilliant man-that he never let go once he had his teeth into something. All that, while the lighter-flame touched the cigarette, and was flicked out, the lighter thrust back into the pocket. Mendoza raised his head, took the cigarette out of his mouth, and saw Morgan there looking at him. And so Morgan had to smile, say his name, the conventional things you did say, meeting an acquaintance.

"How’s Gunn these days? He’s missed downtown, you know-a good man. I understand that’s quite an organization he’s set up."

Morgan agreed; he said you ran into some interesting cases sometimes, he had one now, but one thing for sure, you certainly had a chance to see how the other half lived-but that’d be an old story to Mendoza.

"That you do," said the man from Homicide, and smoke trickled thin through his nostrils; if he took in the double-entendre he gave no sign of it.

"Well, nice to run into you-I’ll give Gunn your regards." Morgan seemed to be under a compulsion to sound hearty, make inane little jokes: "I hope, by the way, we’re not concerned with the same clients again, like that Hurst business-nasty."

"I want 2416."

It was the building Morgan had just left; he said, "That’s it. Be careful of the third step-it’s loose. I nearly broke my neck."

"Thanks very much." And more conventionalities of leave-taking, and he was free. He started again for his car. The gun was suddenly very heavy there against his chest. When he got out his keys, he saw his hand shaking a little. Damn fool, he thought angrily.

It’s going to be all right. Just the way I want it to go. No matter who, no matter what. And, by God, if it isn’t, if the very worst happens-whatever that might be-this was one time anyway he wouldn’t stand still to be knocked out of the ring. He’d have tried, anyway.

Mrs. Irene Cotter was rather thrilled and wildly curious. Two men, detectives of all things, calling in one morning, and both about those Lindstroms. If you'd asked her, she'd have said-in fact, she was saying it now to Mendoza-that most any other tenants she'd ever had while she was manageress here, and that'd been eleven years, were more likely to bring detectives around. That blonde hussy in 307, for instance, or Mr. Jessup who was, not to beat round the bush, just a nasty old man-and there'd been that couple in 419 that got drunk most nights and threw things.

She told him about them all, at some length and, when she remembered, taking pains with her grammar, because this one was a lot more interesting-looking, and seemed more interested in her, than the first one. She always thought there was something about a man with mustache. This one looked a little bit like that fellow in the movies, the one that was usually the villain but personally she thought about a lot of the movies she'd seen with him in that the girl was an awful fool to prefer some sheep-eyed collar-ad instead, but there was no accounting for tastes. And a real gentleman too, beautiful manners; of course that was one thing about these Mexes, people said things about them, but of course there was classes of them just like anywhere, only when they were highclass like this one, you said Spanish.

"-And I tell you, when he up and left, and everybody knew it, nobody couldn't hardly believe it! You'd never have thought they was that kind at all, fly-by-nights I mean that don't go on steady, you know what I mean, all their lives. But I tell you, lieutenant, I like to sort of study people, and G-goodness knows I get the chance in my job, and I said to myself at the time, There's something behind it."

"There usually is. The man left in August, you said, early."

"I couldn't swear to the date, but it was after the rent was due-and paid. They was never a day late. Good tenants. Maybe the first week."

And how long did the woman and boy stay on?"

"Oh, I can tell you that to the day. It was the twenty-second of September they left, she told me in the morning, late, round noon maybe, and they went that night. I remember because she was paid to the end of the month, but they went before, and I did think that was funny, because it must've meant she'd paid extra wherever they were moving, you know, to move in before the first. And already bein' paid up to the first here, you'd think-Of course, all I know, she didn't say, they might've been going back east or somewheres. I did ask, account of mail, not that they ever had much of that, mostly ads-but she never said, just looked at me as if I was being nosy. And I'll tell you something else, Lieutenant, you can believe it or not, but that was just exactly the fourth time I'd spoke to Ms' Lindstrom, all two years they'd been here. That was the kind they was-her, anyways. Why, they'd moved in a week or more before I ever laid eyes on her-it was him rented the place, and paid, and like people mostly do they moved in at night, after work, you know-not that they had much to bring, a few sticks o' furniture. But I was telling you about when he went. It was Mis' Spinner in 319 told me, right next to them, they had 320, you can see that I wouldn't notice right off, especially with them, sometimes I'd see him going off in the morning or coming home, but not every day.

And Mis' Spinner thought I ought to know he'd left, at least hadn't been there she didn't think four-five days, time she told me. Well, they was paid up to the end of August, I didn't go asking questions till then, none o' my business, but when September first come round, it was her come down to pay the rent and then I did figure, better know where we stood, if you see what I mean. Without wanting to be nosy," added Mrs. Cotter virtuously. "She wouldn't admit he'd gone and left her, froze right up and said I needn't worry about the rent, and some rigmarole about he was called back east sudden. But alla same, it wasn't a week before she had to get herself a job, so I knew all right. And if you ask me-"

"Where did she work, do you know?"

"Sure, it was a night job cleaning offices downtown-the Curtis Building. And that's what I was going' to say, Lieutenant-that kind of job, it shows you what she was like, and you ask me, it all ties in, it was prob'ly all her fault, whole thing. She was one of them old maids married like they say, for sure. Went around with a sour look alla time, never a smile or a friendly word in passing-and as for looks! Well, I don't s'pose she was more than forty, and I tell you, she looked like her own gran'mother! Hair screwed up in a little bun behind, and skin like a piece o' sandpaper, you could tell she never took any care of herself, prob'ly used laundry soap and that's that-never a scrap of make-up, and cheap old cotton house dresses was all I ever seen her in. You know's well as me there's no call for a woman to let herself go like that, these days! And if she acted to him the way she did to everybody else, even the youngster, well, between you 'n' me 'n' the gatepost, I don't blame him for walkin' out. A man can take just so much. She'd've been the kind wouldn't let him sleep with her either, a regular prunes-an'-prison old maid like they say, if you know what I mean. Why, if she'd taken a little trouble, fix herself up and act nice, she coulda got a better job, waiting in a store or something, you know, daytimes. There's just no call for a woman to look like that, if she's got any self-respect! But she wasn't one you could talk to friendly, you know, give any advice, like-she was downright rude to everybody tried to make friends, so after a while nobody tried no more, just left them be. And I do think he'd have been different. Times he came by to pay the rent, or if you met him going' out or like that, he always acted friendly and polite. I figure he just got good and fed up with the whole way she was-it musta been like livin' with a set bear trap."

The detective grinned at that and she permitted herself a ladylike titter, smoothing her defiantly brown pompadour. "I gather you didn't exchange much casual talk with the woman at any time."

"Nobody did, she wouldn't let 'em… Ever hear her mention going to buy a doll? That I did not. It wasn't a girl she had, it was a boy, I thought I said. Marty, his name was. He favored his dad, I must say he was a nice-raised boy. Always took off his cap to you, and he was real quiet-for a boy, you know. He'd be about eleven or a bit past when they come, and that last year they was here, he all of a sudden'd started to shoot up, early like some do-going to be as big as his dad, you could see. A real nice boy, he was, not like his Ma at all… Well, I'm sure I don't know why she'd be buying a doll, unless it was for some of their fambly back east, might be she had a niece or something.

But for goodness' sake, Lieutenant, won't you tell me what this is all about-what's she done?-or is it him? I mean'

"I don't know that either of them's done anything. It's a matter of getting evidence, that's all, not very important." He was standing up.

"Oh. I must say, I can't help being curious-two of you coming, same day, ask about them! You can't blame me for that, couldn't you just-"

"So Mr. Morgan was asking about the Lindstroms too?" He looked thoughtful, and then smiled and began to thank her. She saw she wouldn't get any more out of him, but that didn't stop her from speculating. The Lindstroms, of all people!

Mrs. Cotter watched him down the walk to his car, heaved an excited sigh after him, and hurried upstairs to tell Mrs. Spinner all about it.

The clock over the row of phone booths, in the first drugstore he came to, said ten past twelve. Mendoza spent an annoying five minutes looking up the number in a tattered book, finally got the office, and just caught Gunn on his way out to lunch.

"Oh, Luis-how's the boy?-good to hear from you. Say, I'm afraid Andrews' idea didn't pay off, you know, about that hood New York wants for jumping parole. It was a long chance, find him through the wife, and of course it may be she's collecting from some other county agency. If he wants- What's that? Sure thing, anything I can tell you.

… Morgan, well, he's probably having lunch somewhere right now."

"It's one of his cases, that's all. And all I want from you is the present address. The name is Mrs. Marion Lindstrom. Apparently she's only recently applied for relief."

"If we're working on it, that's so, within a few months anyway-it'll be right here in the current file, hang on and I'll look."

Mendoza opened the door for air while he waited. He was rapidly developing a guilty conscience: wasting time over this meaningless thing. He didn't get paid or shouldn't-for listening to inconsequential gossip. A dozen things he should have been doing this morning besides"-Graham Court," said Gunn's voice in his ear.

"Oh? Any idea approximately where that is?"

"Somewhere down the wrong side of Main, that area-below First or Second. We've got'

"?No puede ser! " said Mendoza very softly to himself. "It can't be, not so easy, I don't believe it… When Morgan comes in, tell him to wait, I want to see him. Call me at my office immediatamente -or even quicker! I want everything you've got on these people. Let me have that address again."

It was Gunn, of course, and not Hackett, who said all the things Hackett might say later; before outsiders, like this, Hackett paid lip service to rank. Gunn had once been Mendoza's superior; he spoke up. By the same token, of course, Mendoza wouldn't have talked so freely if Gunn hadn't been a retired Homicide man.

"You've got your wires crossed, Luis. What you've got here is just damn-all, it doesn't mean a thing. First off, how many people d'you suppose moved out of that section of town last September? There's no narrowing it down to a couple of blocks, you have to take in at least a square mile-call it even half a mile-at a guess, seven-eight thousand families, because you're taking in apartments, not just single houses. In that kind of neighborhood people aren't settled, they move around more. And-"

"I know, I know," said Mendoza. "And that's the least of all the arguments against this meaning anything at all. But say it-it's not even very significant that the move should be from the twenty-four-hundred block on Tappan to within two blocks of Commerce and Humboldt, because those are the same sort of neighborhoods, same rent levels, same class and color of people. All right. Evidence-!" He hunched his shoulders angrily, turning from staring at the view out Gunn's office window. "Say it. Even if it is the same killer, no guarantee he lived anywhere near either of the girls. So all this is cuentos de hadas, just fairy tales."

Hackett made a small doleful sound at his cigarette. "I guess you're saying it for yourself, Lieutenant."

"You've got no evidence," Gunn said flatly. "You'd just like to think so, which isn't like you, Luis. What the hell have you got?"

"I've got two dead girls," said Mendoza, abrupt and harsh. "And they don't matter one damn, you know. The kind of murders that happen in any big town, this week, next week, next year. No glamour, no excitement, no big names. Nothing to go in the books, the clever whimsy on Classic Cases or the clever fiction, ten wisecracks guaranteed to the page, a surprise ending to every chapter, where fifteen people had fifteen motives for the murder and fifteen faked alibis for the crucial minute, conveniently fixed by a prearranged long-distance phone call. They weren't very important or interesting females, these two, and anybody at all might have killed them. You know," he swung on Gunn, "this kind of thing, it doesn't go like the books, the clues laid out neat like a paper trail in a game! You start where you can and you take a look everywhere, at everything-?Que mas?- I then you start all over again."

"I know," said Gunn heavily. "What I'm saying is, you've got nothing at all to link these two cases. The doll, that's really out of bounds, boy, that one I don't figure any way. The odds are that somebody found the girl, didn't report it, but picked up the package-"

"You're so right," said Mendoza. "It was dark, and her handbag was half under her, almost hidden."

"Well, there you are. They were killed the same general way, but it's not a very unusual method-brute violence."

"That eye," said Hackett to his cigarette.

Gunn looked at him, back to Mendoza. "If it's a real hunch, Luis, all I've got to say is, keep throwing cold water at it-If it just naturally drowns, let it go."

"What else am I doing?" For they both knew that it wasn't ever all pure cold logic, all on the facts: nothing that had to do with people ever could be wholly like that. You bad a feeling, you had a hunch, and you couldn't drop every other line to follow it up, but a real fourteen karat hunch turned out to be worth something-sometimes. Say it was subconscious reasoning, out of experience and knowledge; it wasn't, always. Just a feeling.

"All right," said Hackett amiably, "cold water. I don't like the doll much myself. I said I'd buy all that about the guy at the skating rink, but there's nothing there to show it's the same one. In fact, the little we have got on that one, it suggests he admired the girl, wanted to pick her up-like that, whether for murder or sex."

"So it does," said Mendoza. "And no hint of anything like that for Carol Brooks."

Gunn opened his mouth, shut it, looked at Hackett's bland expression, and said, "You saw both bodies, of course-you're a better judge of what the similarity there is worth."

"Oh, let's be psychological," said Mendoza. "Not even that. Art says to me before I looked at Ramirez, 'It's another Brooks'-maybe he put it in my mind."

"Sure, lay it on me."

There was a short silence, and then Mendoza said as if continuing argument, "Nobody's interested in this kind of killing, no, except those of us whore paid to be interested. But it's the kind everybody ought to take passionate interest in-the most dangerous kind there is-just because it's without motive. Or having the motive only of sudden, impulsive violence. The lunatic kill. So it might happen to anybody. Claro que si, let one like that kill a dozen, twenty, leave his mark to show it's the same killer, then he's one for the books-the Classic Case. And don't tell me I've got no evidence these were lunatic kills. It's negative evidence, I grant you, but there it is-we looked, you know. Nobody above ground had any reason to murder the Brooks girl, and she wasn't killed for what cash she had on her. The couple of little things we've got on Ramirez, nothing to lead to murder-and she wasn't robbed either. Not to that murder. I don't have to tell you that brute violence of that sort, it's either very personal hate or lunacy."

Morgan cleared his throat; he'd been waiting in silence, a little apart, his case book out ready, if and when they remembered him. "I don't want to butt in, you know more about all this, but I can't help feeling you're on the wrong track here, just for that reason. These people-well, after all-I don't suppose you're thinking the woman did it, and a thirteen-year-old kid-"

Again a short silence. Hackett leaned back in his chair and said conversationally, "I picked up a thirteen-year-old kid a couple of months ago who'd shot his mother in the back while she was watching T.V. She'd told him he couldn't go to the movies that night. You remember that Breckfield business last year?-three kids, the oldest one thirteen, tied up two little girls and set fire to them. One died, the other's still in the hospital. I could take you places in this town where a lot of thirteen-year-old kids carry switch-knives and pug off organized gang raids on each other-and the neighborhood stores. And some of 'em aren't little innocents, any other way, either. Juvenile had a couple in last week-and not the first-with secondary stage V.D., and both on heroin."

Morgan said helplessly, "But-this kid-he Is not like that! He's just a kid, like any kid that age. You can tell, you know."

"Something was said," cut in Mendoza, "about his size, that he'd started to get his growth early. How big is he?-how strong?"

"Almost as tall as I am-five-eight-and-a-half, around there. Still childish-looking, in the face. But he's going to be a big man, he's built that way-big bone structure."

"Weight?"

"Hell, I can't guess about all this," said Morgan angrily. "As far as I can see you've got no reason at all to suspect the Lindstroms of anything. I don't know what's in your mind about this boy-you talk about lunatics and juvenile hoods, so O.K., which is he? You can't have it both ways. The whole thing's crazy."

Mendoza came a few steps toward him, stood there hands in pockets looking down at him, a little cold, a little annoyed. "I've got nothing in my mind about him right now. I don't know. This is the hell of a low card, but I've got the hell of a bad hand and it's the best play I've got at the moment. Carol Brooks was killed on September twenty-first, and these people left that neighborhood-unexpectedly, and in a hurry-within twenty-four hours. The woman was working at night, so the boy was free to come and go as he pleased. Shortly before Brooks was killed, the woman showed interest in an article Brooks was buying on time, and it now appears that the girl had this with her before she was killed and it subsequently disappeared. I'm no psychiatrist and I don't know how much what any psychiatrist'd say might be worth, here-the boy just into adolescence, probably suffering some shock when his father abandoned them. Let that go. But he's big enough and strong enough to have done-the damage that was done. If. And I may take a jaundiced view of the psychological doubletalk, the fact remains that sex can play some funny tricks with young adolescents sometimes. All right. These people are now living in the neighborhood where Elena Ramirez was killed. I don't say they had anything to do with either death, or even the theft. I'd just like to know a little more about them."

Morgan shrugged and flipped open his notebook. "You're welcome to what I've got. Mrs. Lindstrom applied for county relief six weeks ago, and was interviewed by a case worker from that agency. She says her husband deserted her and the boy last August, she has no idea where he is now, hasn't heard from him since. She took a job between then and a week or so before she applied, says she can't go on working on account of her health. She was referred to a clinic, and there's a medical report here-various troubles adding up to slight malnutrition and a general run-down condition. Approved for county relief, and the case shoved on to us to see if we can find Lindstrom, make him contribute support. He's a carpenter, good record, age forty-four, description-and so on and so on-they both came from a place called Fayetteville in Minnesota, so she said," and he glanced at Gunn.

"Yes," said Gunn thoughtfully, "and what does that mean, either? Sometimes these husbands head for home and mother, we usually query the home town first-and I have here a reply from the vital records office in Fayetteville saying that no such family has ever resided there."

"You don't tell me," said Mendoza.

"This I'll tell you," said Morgan, "because we run into it a lot. Some of these women are ashamed to have the folks at home know about it, and they don't realize we're going to check on it-the same with former addresses here, and she gave me a false one on that too, sure. It doesn't necessarily mean-"

"No. But it's another little something. What have you got on the boy?"

"Nothing, why should I have? He exists, that's all we have to know. He's normal, thirteen years old, name Martin Eric Lindstrom, attends seventh grade at John C. Calhoun Junior High."

Morgan shut the book.

"That's all? I'd like to know more about the boy. We'll have a look round. No trace of the father yet?"

"It's early, we've only been on this a few days. Routine inquiries out to every place in the area hiring carpenters-to vital records and so on in other counties-and so on."

"Yes. Will you let me have a copy of all that you've got, please-to my office. We'll keep an eye on them, see what shows up, if anything. Thanks very much."

When the two men from Homicide had gone, Gunn said, "Get one of the girls to type up that report, send it over by hand."

"O.K.," said Morgan. "I suppose-" He was half-turned to the door, not looking at Gunn. "I suppose that means he'll have men watching that apartment."

"It's one of the basic moves. What's the matter, Dick?"

"Nothing," said Morgan violently. "Nothing at all. Oh, hell, it's just that- I guess Mendoza always rubs me the wrong way, that's all. Always so damned sure of himself-and I think he's way off the beam here."

"It doesn't look like much of anything," agreed Gunn. "But on the other hand, well, you never can be sure until you check."