On the Other Hand, Death

19

Dot was on the phone with Peter

Greco's mother in San Diego. "Oh, no, Mrs. Greco. No, Peter did nothing to bring this on himself, you can be dead certain of that." She winced, and went on. "Peter was one of the sweetest, most considerate people I've ever known, and this thing is just the most unfair- Yes, I'm afraid it's not a mistake. I saw your son's body myself and- Is there someone there with you, Mrs. Greco?"

She stood slumped against the wall, her eyes half shut in a face collapsed with age and grief. As I passed her, our eyes met and she shook her head in spent resignation.

I went over to the cop seated at the kitchen table, apparently on guard against sugar bowl thieves.

You guys screwed up," I said. "This was tossed into the Wilsons' mailbox fifteen minutes ago." I dropped the envelope on the table. "How come their place wasn't covered?"

His jaw dropped and he snatched up the letter. His mouth clamped shut as he opened the envelope, and when he read the note his jaw dropped again. Getting up, he said, "I better notify the lieutenant."

"Right. This puts a new light on things. Or an old one."

The cop trotted out to his radio car as Dot went on speaking with someone who seemed to be a neighbor or friend of the senior Grecos'. After a moment, she placed the receiver on the hook but didn't move. There was a long silence. She glanced at me, then looked away. I could see what she was thinking.

I said, "It's no one's fault. Except the people who did it. They are the only ones to blame. When I find them, I'll tell them how we feel about what they have done."

"I offered them the money," Dot said in a broken voice. "What more could I have done?"

"Nothing."

"But if I had sold the house three months ago-"

"Yes, and if armadillos drove mopeds, fish could fly kites."

She gave me a funny look. "Why, that makes no sense at all."

I shrugged. "The point is, you've done the right things all the way down the line. Anyhow, you've got to stay strong and think about the present, Dot. And the future. Another problem's come up.

Fenton is in trouble."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Of course. Fenton's been kidnapped. He took the money to the kidnappers this morning, hoping to buy Peter's release, and now with Peter dead the kidnappers are holding Fenton. Any fool could see that. I suspected as much when Fenton left this morning with the money and didn't come back. Peter's death confirmed it. Has there been another ransom note?" I nodded. "They'll kill Fenton, of course. Because he's seen them now and he'll be able to identify them. Do you think that's why they killed Peter? I think so."

The effort expended in getting all that out was too much for her, and, her face gone white, she clutched at the countertop. I helped her into a chair.

"Where's Edie?" she said.

"I don't know, Dot. I haven't seen her. Is she upstairs maybe?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, she's up there with the air conditioner running. Good God, it's hot! Is it me, or is today even more of a scorcher than yesterday? I used to think that when I was a child the summers were hotter and the winters colder. But now I'm not so sure. I suppose it's me. I guess it's just this dilapidated old sack of flesh and bones I drag around in. I think I'll go up and lie down for a bit. Edie's got the right idea. Cool off by the air conditioner. Yes, that's the ticket."

Dot insisted she needed no help climbing the stairs. She said that if I was hungry I should fix myself a sandwich and some salad. Which I did. The sun was low above the pear orchard. It was after six o'clock.

Bowman arrived within twenty minutes. He examined the new ransom note.

"Oy vey."

"You think McWhirter sent it?" I asked. "That it's part of the plot, the big production?"

"Maybe not. I guess not." He scratched his head.

"Did you get prints off the first note?"

"Yeah. Yours, Mrs. Fisher's, and Kay Wilson's. These people are dumb, but they're not that dumb.

There were traces of latex on the note. Bastards wore rubber gloves. But I'll have this one checked anyway, just in case."

"What about the finger?"

"Nah, no prints on that. Just its own."

"Whose was it?"

"No record. The lab guys did come up with one thing though. The finger had been washed up with Albany tap water-you can't miss that stuff-but there were still traces of formaldehyde in it too."

"Is that a fact? So. That suggests a hospital or lab."

"We managed to deduce that on our own, Strachey. We're asking around."

"And nobody's reported a stolen finger?"

"Of course not. You think I wouldn't have heard about that?"

"Maybe it's Rockefeller's. Middle, upraised. Have you checked the state museum?"

He blanched at the sacrilege.

"And Greco's both hands were intact when he was found?"

He grunted.

"What did the coroner have to say? Is his report in yet?"

He rolled his eyes. "Asphyxiation," he said disgustedly. "So far, that's it."

"From drowning, or what?"

"I said, that is it. No. Greco did not drown. No water in the lungs. And no signs of strangulation.

He'd been bound at his wrists and ankles, and it looked like he'd tried hard to get loose. There were cuts and rope burns where he'd been tied. And he'd been gagged, but not so tightly that he couldn't have breathed. His nose hadn't been covered, and he hadn't swallowed his tongue. The coroner hasn't figured it out yet. He's working on it, narrowing it down."

"Drugs?"

"No sign of any. They're still checking. He could've been locked in an airtight enclosure. Car trunk or something. Don't know yet."

"How long had he been dead?"

"Twelve, fourteen hours. That'd put it between ten and midnight last night."

I said, "I don't get it."

"Me neither."

"He died from three to five hours before the ransom was to have been picked up. Why would they kill him then? Even if they'd decided Greco would have to die to prevent his identifying them, why risk doing it before the cash was in hand?"

"So, they got cocky, overconfident. We know they're stupid."

"No, we don't know that, Ned. We only know they're poorly educated, can't spell."

"Jesus. You liberals."

"Or they want us to think that they never got past sixth grade. I want to hear the tape again. The call from the pay phone to McWhirter."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"I'd like to hear the original. Is it in your office?"

"Nnn. I'll set it up. I'm hanging in out here in case they call again. Some of my crew will be joining me. Are you putting up the hundred grand again this time, or what?"

A shiver went up my back, then down again. I said, "Stuff a box with Monopoly money. It looks as if it hardly matters at this point. Christ, these people are vicious beyond belief."

"Maybe Mrs. Fisher wants to cough up the dough this time. She really is kind of a nice batty old broad. I like her. Wouldn't mind having her on my side if I ever got in a tight spot."

"She doesn't know yet what the tab is this time. When she finds out, don't let her call her lawyer.

Ask her to talk to me first."

"Well, now. I'd say that'd be up to her."

Watching him, I said, "Have you spoken with Crane Trefusis today, Ned?"

"We chatted," he said nonchalantly. "He's clean."

"Sure. No one in Albany with an income of more than a hundred grand a year has ever committed a crime. That's a given."

"I didn't say that."

I studied him again. I was nearly certain that he was just acting cute to irritate me, but not entirely certain. I waited, but he had nothing to add on the subject.

In the gathering dusk, I drove back into the city. My car still stank in the heat, as did I.

A police technician in Bowman's office played the tape for me five times.

"Hello?"

"You want your lover back?"

"Y-yes."

"In three minutes, call this number I'm gonna give you. Call from another phone. Call 555-8107.

And bring the fuckin' money!"

"Let me write it down-"

Click.

I had heard the voice. Where? In another case I'd been involved in? In a public place? A bar, restaurant, airport, bus station, shopping mall? Why did I think it had to have been a public place? Because it was not someone I'd known well enough to meet, or even just overhear, in a private place? Or was it because of-noise. That was it.

I associated the sound of that voice-harsh, sullen, unappealing-with background noise. The sounds of people talking at a large gathering in a public place. But which one? When?

I couldn't remember.

On the way out of Division Two Headquarters I passed Sandra and Joey Deem seated morosely on a wooden bench near the front door. Sandra's eyes were bloodshot, the only color in her entire being. Her son wore a jacket and tie and looked frightened. Sandra explained that Joey had just been booked on the vandalism charge and would appear in juvenile court in late September.

"It's his first time," I said. "The judge will go easy. Just don't show up there a second time." This wasn't quite true. It was only about the fifty-seventh offense of this type that could get you into real trouble.

"There won't be a second time," Mrs. Deem said wanly. "Will there, Joey?"

He shook his head once and stared at the floor. I didn't envy him his necktie in the heat

"Joey's father is pretty upset with him, ' Mu. Deem said with a cracked smile. "But if Joey stays out of trouble for a year, his dad is going to buy him that transmission. He told him that this morning. Didn't he, Joey? That's what Dad promised."

The boy nodded, didn't look up.

I offered what encouragement I could, then left them there in the Arch Street gloom.

The apartment was empty, undisturbed, unvisited.

I stood in the bedroom and screamed, "Timmy, you asshole! You finicky mama's boy! You tight-assed Papist! You creep!"

There was no response. *** My service had no messages. I dialed Lyle Barner's number and got no answer. I reached Bowman at Dot Fisher's. He said the kidnappers had made no further contact and that the coroner had not yet established the exact cause of Peter Greco's death.

I thought of Greco alive. I felt his fingers brushing my face. I went into the bathroom and threw up. Go-Buick week on the Hudson.

I showered and changed clothes for the first time in two and a half days. The improvement was noticeable. I phoned Tad Purcell's number but got no answer. I checked my watch. It was seven-forty. I drove out to the Green Room and found Purcell at the piano bar. Artur Rubinstein in white bucks was pounding out a medley from Finian's Rainbow.

I slid onto the stool beside Purcell and said, "Did you hear about Peter, Tad?"

Weakly: "Yes." He looked it. His face was as white as Pat Boone's shoes. His eyes were pinholes.

His hair was slick with sweat and spraynet.

The philosopher king said, "Everything stinks sometimes. Some of it can't be explained."

Barely audible: "I know."

"But in this case there is an explanation," I told him. "I intend to find it."

He peered over at me glumly. He said, "Good luck." He lifted a glass of something festively colored and consumed a third of it.

"Where were you last night, Tad? Were you here till closing?"

With a nervous giggle, he said, "Where else?" This was so easy to check on that anybody with half a mind wouldn't have said it if it hadn't been true. I'd check anyway.

I said, "You work for Albany Med. Who would I talk to over there if I wanted very discreetly to find out if any body parts were missing? From a lab, or morgue, or whatever."

With a look of mock disgust, he said, "God, you are weird."

"Like a finger, for instance. I've got to find out where a certain finger came from."

"Why? J'catch something from it?" His remark amused him hugely and he glanced around to see if anyone nearby had been fortunate enough to overhear it. Artur segued into the theme from A Letter to Three Wives.

"It's possible the finger came from somewhere else," I said. "A lab or college or one of the other area hospitals. But Albany Med is the biggest local repository I can think of for odds and ends of human body parts, so that's where I'm starting. Who would know about such things?"

"Newell Bankhead's in charge of the pathology lab," Purcell said with a shrug. "He'd be the one to talk to about blood and gore, I guess."

"Would he be on tonight? Or will I have to track him down at home or somewhere?"

Purcell giggled again. "Newell works weekdays. But he's not at home, I can tell you that for a certainty."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because," Purcell said with a drunk's sly I've-seen-it-all-and-nothing-surprises-me-anymore grin, "Newell's right over there. He's the pianist."

I looked off to my right and saw Artur's right hand swoop through the air at the completion of a crashing arpeggio. He caught my eye and winked.

Newell Bankhead, a tall, gaunt, bright-eyed man of a certain age (mine), said he thought we would find fewer distractions if we chatted at his apartment around the corner on Partridge Street. Newell managed to provide a somewhat unnerving distraction of his own, but when I walked out of his apartment an hour and a half later I had what I wanted, so what the hell.

The list I carried had on it a hundred and six names. Most were employees of Albany Medical Center, though Newell had made a few phone calls and was able to add names from Memorial, St. Peter's, and three other area hospitals.

It would be very difficult, Newell had told me, to account for every detached finger that came and went at Albany Med or any other large hospital. None had been reported missing, that he knew of. Often, he said, in cases of severe mutilation, as occurred in certain unusually brutal car accident fatalities, the assorted remains of the deceased were promptly hauled off to a funeral director for whatever cosmetic reconstruction was possible, or were sent in plastic bags for a closed casket service. Occasional odds and ends of body parts, however, were sometimes kept in the pathology lab for study. Or they were simply disposed of: wrapped, sealed, and incinerated.

The names on Newell's list were of men and women who would have had easy access to these body parts at one time or another. There were pathology department workers in various capacities, and a large number of emergency-room doctors, nurses, and aides who carried out a 87 variety of functions. At the end of the list was the maintenance worker at Albany Med who ran the incinerator.

Newell pointed out that the list was not at all complete, so he starred the names of gay friends and acquaintances of his who, if I needed them, could provide additional names for the list.

When I counted the stars- there were 27 out of 106-it looked as though Fenton McWhirter was right. During a gay national strike, it would not be wise to have an accident or become ill in the United States of America.

Bankhead also told me he had heard from a co-worker friend on weekend duty that two police detectives had visited the hospital that afternoon seeking the same kind of information. My opinion of Bowman's professional abilities went up, though I was afraid it would take Bowman's bureau three days to interview and, where necessary, investigate everyone on the list. I doubted we had that much time if we were going to save Fenton McWhirter.

I knew what I had to do. It was going to take five or six hours of drudgery, but there was no other way. I was going to make 106 phone calls, and I was going to listen for a hard, tense, distinctive voice that I would recognize.

I drove down Central to my office. I wrenched open the window above the burnt-out air conditioner, reached around and removed a loose brick from the face of the building, and used it to prop the window open. Then I sat at my desk, spread out Newell's list, opened the phone book, and began to dial.

"Good evening, I'm Biff McGuirk, calling from his honor the mayor's office. Are you Mr.

Lawrence Banff?"

"Yes, speaking."

"Mr. Banff, the mayor is surveying the Albany citizenry to learn if there are ways city government can improve its services to the beautiful people of this extremely interesting town we all cohabit. May I ask if…"

After a grueling half-hour of this, I'd had enough. Too much. I had completed only three calls and had listened to a large number of moderately affecting stories having to do with potholes, water rates, potholes, property taxes, potholes, mad dogs, and the humidity on Ten Broeck Street.

I had not heard the voice of the kidnapper.

I stared at the phone. It all seemed futile, a very chancy long shot at best. The kind of approach you took when you had the time to pick up the thousand loose ends you invariably came away with. I couldn't even be certain that the owner of the voice of the kidnapper I'd heard was even on my list. Or on any hypothetical list of hospital employees. Maybe it was the accomplice who'd stolen the finger from some lab or emergency room, the accomplice whose voice I had never heard and would not recognize at all.

I thought about it some more and came up with one semi-bright idea. Bowman, I figured, could get quick voice prints of all the area ER and pathology lab personnel-this could be accomplished within twenty-four hours-and then match them against a print of the voice on the tape. I calculated the odds at about fifty-fifty that our man was a hospital employee, and if so, this would be a way of zeroing in on him fast.

I phoned Bowman's office, was told that he was still out at the Fisher farm, and was patched through to his radio car.

The man himself came on the line thirty seconds later. "Better get your ass out here, Strachey, if you don't want to miss the excitement. Your mysterious voice called up. Mrs. Fisher is going to deliver the cash."

"Dot is?"

"That's who they asked for. She says she's gonna do it."

"Crap. Oh, crap." end user