The Gremlin’s Grampa

Chapter 9

Thursday — 12:20 p.m.

“No mickey in Falcone,” Dondero announced cheerfully, and tossed the autopsy report over toward Reardon. The lieutenant let it lie, merely straightening its edges to accord with a pile of similar reports cluttering his desk. “Stomach contents indicate a small quantity of alcohol consumed just prior to death; blood analysis indicates a larger consumption some time earlier, but certainly nothing that could be considered enough to make him not know what he was doing. Just normal for a steady drinker. As for the body, no gunshot wounds, no knife wounds, no Indian arrow poison; in fact, no poison at all. No arsenic, no cyanide; no fish, no rice, no coconut oil. And the condition of the body after hitting the pavement from fifteen stories up?” He shrugged. “Well, somebody could have clubbed him first, or he could have had a double hernia and died of it on the way down, but nobody will ever know of it now.”

Reardon sighed. “So how did he go out the window?”

“Maybe he was hypnotized,” Dondero suggested. “Or the dame drops her handkerchief out the window and like a gentleman he reached to pick it up.” He became serious. “My guess, Jim, is that the girl got him to show her the view, he stands at the window, pointing maybe, and one good push and he’s on his way.”

“Which is probably just what happened,” Reardon said, and turned to stare out the window. The huge buildings growing in downtown San Francisco rose to mar the view. “But I suppose we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t try to complicate things for ourselves. What about the lab report on those two glasses?”

“Alcohol, is about all they came out with. One had scotch — they probably arrived at that scientific conclusion by smelling it. The other all they could say was a mixture of various alcoholic beverages, but none containing sedative, poison or other injurious liquids. From what you tell me of that Gremlin’s Grampa,” he added, “I wonder what they call injurious?”

“A good question,” Reardon said. “What about Martin?”

Sergeant Bennett answered from the other side of the desk. His tone of voice indicated that he no longer resented his temporary transfer to Homicide; that, in fact, he even found it interesting. He held the report in his hand but didn’t refer to it.

“We’re better off there, Lieutenant. First, of course, it seems the body had paint all over it, the clothes, that is, from the railing, but that’s beside the point. The direct cause of death was suffocation. Somebody apparently held a pillow over his face until he strangled—”

“A pillow?” Reardon swiveled his chair around, frowning at the sergeant. “How do they know it was a pillow?”

“Well,” the sergeant said almost apologetically, “actually, they assume it. They don’t say anything definite or positive in the whole report, but they found feather shards and particles in his lungs. Goose feathers. So they assume it was a pillow, although I suppose a quilt could have done it equally—”

“Maybe someone hit him in the face with a live goose,” Dondero said, and then fell silent under the looks from the two men. Sergeant Bennett went on with his report.

“Anyway, there were no bruises on his arms or legs to indicate a struggle, but there was a bruise on his neck which was caused before death, and the autopsy pathologist says—” He referred to the report for accuracy. “—which was inflicted — before death and was possibly caused by pressure applied to the carotid sinus, probably eliciting the Hering reflex, rendering the victim unconscious prior to smothering.” He looked up. “You’d think they would have just kept on pressing there, because the pathologist also says that prolonged pressure on the carotid sinus can result in cardiac stoppage and death.” He handed over the report. “That’s what it says, basically, Lieutenant.”

Reardon added it to the pile of reports and pushed them all away. He looked at the sergeant. “What about the time of death?”

“Between twelve midnight and three in the morning. “That’s the closest they can make it, and that’s apparently based on what Mrs. Martin said about what they had for dinner. And when.”

Reardon sighed. “And could a woman have done it?”

Bennett looked at him blankly; there was a sort of shuffling movement on the part of Sergeant Dondero, indicating his surprise as well at the question, but the swarthy detective remained silent. Bennett shook his head, bewildered.

“The report doesn’t say, Lieutenant.”

“Well, then, let’s find out. Who signed the report?”

Bennett shook his head. Reardon reached for the report, turned a page and checked for himself. “Dr. Henke. Good enough.” He dragged the telephone closer and dialed an internal number. There were a few moments delay while he spoke first to a secretary and then to an assistant. Finally the pathologist was on the line.

“Doctor Henke here.”

“Doctor, this is Lieutenant Reardon in Homicide. We’ve been discussing your postmortem report on Raymond Martin—”

“Discussing it? Isn’t it clear?”

“It’s clear, Doctor, but some questions have come up that aren’t covered in the report. Not that they necessarily should have been,” he added hastily, aware of the touchiness of doctors in general and pathologists like Henke in particular.

“Such as?”

“Well, in the first place, Doctor, could a woman have committed the crime?”

“A child could have smothered the man once he was unconscious,” the doctor said a bit sententiously. “As for rendering him unconscious, of course, that depends upon the strength, speed and skill of the person pressing on the carotid sinus. Martin wasn’t a particularly large person — I don’t have the figures in front of me, but you have them in the report — and the reaction of unconsciousness from the use of such a pressure point is fairly rapid. I would say that anyone with a basic knowledge of physiology, or even karate — and they are teaching that to everyone these days — could have known the results of such pressure.”

Reardon cupped the receiver and grinned at Bennett.

“You were right, Sergeant. They sure hate to say anything definite.” He returned his attention to the telephone, his smile erased. “So what you are saying, in effect, Doctor, is that a woman could have done it. Is that the case?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” the doctor said. His tone was reluctant, not so much at the thought of a woman committing the crime, as at the thought of committing himself to a definite fact. “Actually,” he added, as if the additional statement somehow cleared him of any responsibility, “there are really almost no crimes of violence a woman can’t perform. Nor hasn’t.”

“Thank you, Doctor. One more question — and I know you can’t be positive on this since I’m asking motive now — but can you think of any reason to smother a man after he was unconscious from this pressure on the carotid you mention? I mean, wouldn’t continued pressure have resulted in death, anyway?”

The doctor paused, trying to remember what he had said in his report.

“Not necessarily,” he said cautiously. “Or perhaps saying, not inevitably, would be putting it more accurately.” He continued in his condescending tone, this hurdle successfully taken. “You see, Lieutenant, death is far from necessarily instantaneous in such cases. In fact, death has been known to occur much later from asphyxia induced gradually by hemorrhage, edema or emphysema developing in the submucous layer of the glottis and occluding its aperture—”

Reardon cast his eyes to the ceiling imploringly and then brought them down again.

“By later, Doctor, you mean some time later, isn’t that the case?”

“By later, Lieutenant,” the pathologist said with a touch of sarcasm, “I mean later, which could be anywhere from minutes to days, depending upon the size of the hemorrhage. There have even been cases where the laryngeal injury heals and the scar tissue which forms may cause obstruction of the lumen several months later, even at times requiring operative interference to improve the patient’s condition.”

Despite the importance of maintaining good relations with other departments — stressed by Captain Tower in his weekly departmental meetings — this was a bit too much.

“You are not suggesting that in two or three months it might be necessary to operate on Ray Martin to help him regain his voice, are you, Doctor?” There was a shocked intake of breath from the other end of the line. Reardon went on. “I asked you a simple question and I’d appreciate a simple answer. Can you think of any reason why — after rendering the man unconscious, the killer didn’t proceed to keep the pressure on until Martin was dead? Instead of holding the pillow over his face?”

When the doctor answered, his voice was icy.

“I don’t much care for your tone, Lieutenant, but I can think of various answers to your question. He may have been interrupted. He may have wished to disguise the fact of his having used the carotid sinus at all; he may have felt the prolonged pressure might leave an indicative bruise whereas temporary pressure would not — in which case I can only say he knew nothing of medicine.” He seemed to anticipate a further question and answered it before it could be asked. “I have no idea why. Possibly when you catch your murderer, Lieutenant, you can ask him. Or her.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Reardon said politely, and hung up.

“What did he say?” Dondero sounded curious.

“Nothing. I thought for a while there he was using doubletalk, and maybe he was.” Reardon drummed his fingers restlessly on the desk. “Oh, yes — a woman could have done it, but if we ever get him on the stand he’ll probably swear we forced the information from him with hot needles.” He smiled wryly. “Well, that’s that. What’s next?”

“Well,” Dondero said slowly, “there’s still the matter of Jerry Capp—”

“What about him?”

“Well, they did an autopsy on him, too, you know,” Dondero said. “Not that there was any doubt as to how he was killed, or anything like that, but you know how it goes.”

“I know. And?”

“Well,” Dondero said, and he didn’t sound encouraged, “like they just did with you a minute ago, they don’t say anything for certain, but from the report I doubt like hell that a woman could have done it. At least not a small woman, or anyway not a weak woman. The knife slid off a pocket notebook he had in his jacket pocket, cut through the rest of the jacket, plus a shirt, plus an undershirt, and then broke off the edge of a rib before it hit his heart. It was a lucky shot to kill him, it’s true, and the knife must have been sharp as hell and strong, but that’s not the point. The point I’m getting at is it had to be one hell of a strong swipe to do all that damage.”

Reardon frowned. “Did Stan Lundahl turn in his report from last night?”

“Yeah. I read it and it’s with the others. He went back to that bar on the Embarcadero like you asked, and talked to the bartender again. The bartender, Alfred Sullivan, you remember, still says he doesn’t remember the girl who asked directions too well, but he says she wasn’t any five foot six or seven, and while he says she was a looker and had a fair-sized chest and he thinks her hair was brown, he isn’t sure and anyway he says it wasn’t long, like the girl who was with Falcone later. And from his description she doesn’t sound like she had the muscle to do this stabbing.”

“I wasn’t suggesting she stabbed anyone,” Reardon said mildly. “I was suggesting she fingered Capp for somebody else.”

“Then why all the stress on women?”

“Desperation,” Reardon said with honesty, and shook his head in discouragement. He looked from one man to the other. “So where does that leave us?”

Dondero shrugged. He reached into a pocket and brought out a cigarette, lighting it and looking at Reardon through a cloud of smoke. He looked faintly amused.

“What do you mean — Us — Paleface? You’re the chief in this tribe; we’re just Indians who happen to work the eight-to-four.”

Bennett looked surprised at this easy exchange between the two men, but kept his peace. Reardon sighed. “I suppose so. Well, what’s next?”

“How about lunch next?” Dondero suggested.

“Soon.” Reardon took out his notebook and studied it. He looked up. “Oh, yes... Don, this afternoon I’d like you and the sergeant to check out those men who were in the bar when Capp got hit, the ones who beat it before we got there. You got their names and addresses?”

“Most of them, plus that old dame they say was in there, the regular barfly, not the young girl. There’s a pretty standard crowd at these neighborhood bars. And most of the men I got work on the docks, so I can dig them up through the hiring hall if I have to.”

“Good. You know what to ask them. Then I want you — or one of you; you can split it up any way you want — to check on places that rent costumes—” Both Bennett and Dondero looked at him, mystified. “Places that sell things like fake beards and mustaches and fright wigs and stuff like that,” the lieutenant added patiently.

“Oh.”

“And then I’d like a check on the Salvation Army and the Goodwill Industries — just a simple phone call ought to handle that — to have their people on the lookout for a red plaid lumber jacket and that hunting cap — hell, you know what to tell them, Don. And give the sanitation department a call, too...”

Dondero looked up from his notebook, squinting past the smoke from the cigarette pasted in the corner of his mouth. It was too annoying; he removed it before speaking.

“That’s all? You’re sure? You wouldn’t like us to interview the painters on the Bay Bridge, or even give them a hand on that railing, or go down and help Henke cut up his next cadaver? Or maybe even wash your car, too, in our spare time?”

“It really isn’t all that much work,” Reardon said with a patience he wasn’t feeling. He knew that Dondero was purposely spooking him in front of Bennett because he thought the old man had had a rough deal, but he and Don were too close friends to allow him to take it seriously. He also knew that pulling rank would be a serious mistake at the moment. “You can do two thirds of it by phone, all except the guys and that old dame from the bar. And Stan will be in at three today and I’ll have him give you a hand. Call in and I’ll have him meet you someplace.” He started to pull the papers on his desk together, shaking his head sadly. “Me, I thought today was going to be a ball when I got up. I must have forgotten about the police department and their reports. I’ll be the rest of the day just reading these.”

“And why not?” Dondero asked. “Everyone else had to.” He came to his feet, closing his notebook and knotting it shut with the usual worn rubber band. He tucked it into his pocket and motioned Bennett toward the door. “If Stan comes in early, just send him downstairs.”

“Downstairs?” Reardon stared at him. “What are you going to be doing downstairs?”

“Eating,” Dondero said airily. “For the next few hours. In the cafeteria. They don’t serve martinis, so we won’t ask you to join us,” he added, winking broadly at Bennett, and escaped, taking the elderly sergeant with him, closing the door smartly behind him.

Reardon looked after him with a hardening frown. So Don had a gripe; there was still such a thing as discipline, especially in front of a temporary man such as Bennett. Don’t be so damned stuffy, Reardon, he told himself suddenly. Dondero didn’t know it, but if Jan had her matchmaking way, maybe he was shooting off his mouth in front of his future father-in-law. He grinned at the thought and reached for the telephone. Even before the reports there was the matter of speaking with Dutch Smarth at the Examiner, a chore he had completely forgotten until this moment.

Details, details, he thought with a despairing sigh, and clicked the receiver for the switchboard operator.

Thursday — 8:30 p.m.

“Ready?” Jan asked, poking her head from the small kitchen of her apartment on the edge of North Beach, a few blocks and fifty years in time from Reardon’s flat on Chestnut and Hyde. The lovely odor of the steak broiled to perfection escaped the tiny built-in-oven and filtered into the living room. She then proceeded to completely demolish any thought that her query had been anything but rhetorical. “You’d better be, in about two minutes,” she added flatly, “because that’s when it’s coming out of the oven.”

“Fire at will, Grubley,” Reardon said with consummate ease. He completed measuring enough gin into a pitcher for exactly two more martinis, added a dash of vermouth and some ice cubes, and then poured a liberal dose of additional gin in for good luck. He mixed the drinks carefully and decanted them; there was enough left over in the pitcher to allow him a quick and ample sip before refilling the glasses.

“I saw that,” Jan said firmly from the doorway.

“I’m going to have to mix martinis in the bathroom,” Reardon said plaintively, and carried the two brimming glasses to the card table set up for dining in the middle of the living room. “Which,” he added, thinking about it, “will be a major chore if we ever get to drinking Gremlin’s Grampas.”

Jan stared at him. “Gremlin’s What-pas?”

“If you’re really going to be grammatical,” Reardon said haughtily, “It should have been Gremlin’s Who-pas, not What-pas. And you a college graduate and me a dropout! Anyway, it’s Gremlin’s Grampas.”

“And what on earth are they?”

“A fair question,” Reardon conceded, and placed the glasses in place beside the dinner plates. His face sobered. “Actually, it’s as close as we have to what might laughingly be called a clue in the Falcone case. We think the boy scout — or girl scout — who helped him across the windowsill, drank a drink called a Gremlin’s Grampa. A weird concoction of gin and brandy and vermouth and Cointreau and vodka—”

“You can’t be serious!”

“It’s the truth. Do you really think I have enough imagination to invent a thing like that?”

“Well, no,” Jan said honestly.

“Thanks a lot,” Reardon said coldly, and made a motion of invitation toward her glass. “Be my guest.”

“Let me bring the steaks in.” She disappeared to return in moments with a large platter steaming from the two sizzling steaks that graced it, flanked by baked potatoes and simmering under a smothering coat of mushrooms and onions. She set it down, returned to the kitchen for the salad and placed that on the seat of a chair beside the card table. She sat down and picked up her drink.

Reardon also sat and raised his glass. “Here’s luck.”

Jan paused a moment and then nodded. “Friday,” she said, and sipped.

“Friday?” Reardon drank and then looked at her with raised eyebrows. “If that’s a toast, it’s a new one. Maybe the night bartender over at the Cranston Hotel would give you a free drink for that one.”

Jan put down her glass and began serving the salad.

“It isn’t a toast,” she said calmly. “I just remembered. Tomorrow is Friday and we’re having family dinner at the Bennett’s. It’s a surprise birthday party for Gabriella’s father, so don’t say anything.”

“Who’s going to say anything?” Reardon demanded. “Or even go?”

“You are, dear. With me.”

“Who made those arrangements? Tom Bennett is working for me right now, and—”

“And it would be lese majesty on his part to sit at the same table with the illustrious Lieutenant Reardon?” Jan smiled sweetly. “I made the arrangements, dear. And I also included Sergeant Dondero, so please don’t forget to tell him.”

Reardon paused, fork in hand.

“And just how am I supposed to convince Sergeant Dondero — a noted hardhead — that your friend Gabriella is the girl he wants to date tomorrow night?”

“By pulling rank, darling,” Jan said seriously, and started to serve the mushrooms. “After all, sweet, you’re so anxious to get married, I thought you might enjoy getting a taste of a wife’s prerogatives...” She looked at him. “Did you say something, dear?”

“Grrr,” said Reardon. “That’s all... Just grrr!!”