The Naked Typist

24

Steve Winslow looked at the newspapers spread out on Mark Taylor’s desk. “NAKED TYPIST SLAY SUSPECT” was the headline in the Post. The Daily News had “CASTLETON KILLER TYPED NUDE.”

Steve shook his head. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” Taylor said. “And that’s just the ones they’re printing. You should hear some of the stuff the guys are making up.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“Oh,” Taylor said. He ran his hand over an imaginary headline. “Like, ‘COPS HAVE NOTHING ON HER AND NEITHER HAS SHE.’”

“Nice.”

“Yeah. Or, ‘AT LEAST SHE WASN’T CARRYING ANY CONCEALED WEAPONS.’”

“That’s not a headline.”

“Hey, let’s not quibble. The point is, it’s just as bad as you feared. Your client’s a laughingstock, the story’s page one, and this case is going to be decided in the press before it ever gets to trial.”

“I know, Mark.”

“The other bad news is, we’re dead wrong as usual. Dirkson’s gonna prosecute.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It’s not official yet, but I have it on good authority. Word is he wasn’t gonna, but Castleton paid him a little visit yesterday and turned him around.”

“Oh, hell.”

“Yeah, it’s bad news in more ways than one. You’re going up against the D.A. with Castleton’s weight behind him. That’s a formidable combination. The scary part is, Dirkson’s sharp. If there’s the slightest leak about my involvement in this case, Dirkson will pick up on it. A young A.D.A. might miss it, but Dirkson won’t.”

“Let’s not go through that again.”

“No, let’s not. Believe me, I’m never going through this again.”

“Yeah, fine,” Steve said impatiently. “You got anything for me besides the voice of doom?”

“Yeah, but it ain’t good.” Taylor flipped open his notebook. “Stanley Castleton. Basic wimp. Weak, ineffectual, yes man to Milton Castleton. Position in company due solely to accident of birth. Puppet, at best. Wouldn’t go to the bathroom without checking with dad. Fifty-two years old, married thirty years to same woman, Helen Castleton, nee Greenfield, union produced one son, David.”

Taylor flipped the page. “House in White Plains. Marriage still intact. Stanley Castleton not known to have any mistress, girlfriend, or otherwise fool around. No predilection for gambling, dope or booze. Staid family man. Hobbies are-get this-coin and stamp collecting.”

Taylor looked up from his notes. “You wanna make a case a man like that killed his only son, good luck.”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “What about the stamp and coin collecting?”

“What about it?”

“How extensive is this collection? Castleton plunkin’ down any large sums for any rare coins?”

“Nice try, but the answer’s no. The guy’s a tightwad and a penny-pincher. Best information we got, the most he ever spent on a coin was fifty bucks. And then it took him two weeks to decide if he was gonna spring for the damn thing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I know, Steve. We’ve gone through his background with a fine-tooth comb. I wish I could tell you the guy had some weakness, that he’d been claiming business trips and actually nippin’ off to Atlantic City to the casinos, but it just isn’t so. The guy is your basic stick-in-the-mud.”

“But he’s the nominal head of Castleton Industries.”

“Very nominal. Milton Castleton still runs the show, and everyone knows it.”

“Yeah. Until he dies.”

“What?”

“Milton Castleton is a sick man. He’s not gonna last forever. So what happens when he dies? What does Stanley Castleton do then?”

“That’ll be up to him. Daddy may have left him some guidelines, but he doesn’t have to follow them. It’ll be his company then.”

“Will it?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Just a thought, Mark. Right now Stanley Castleton’s in charge. Nominally, as you say. And one assumes he’d take over when the old man dies. But would he?”

Mark Taylor frowned. “Whaddya mean?”

“Well, he would now, that’s for sure. But if David hadn’t died.”

“What are you getting at, Steve?”

“From everything you told me, there’s no way Stanley Castleton could run the company.”

“So?”

“So Milton Castleton must know that. He must have been taking that into account. He’s old and sick, and he can’t last much longer. But he’s a fighter, and he’s got an interest in this empire he built up.”

“I’m trying to follow this, but-”

“I’m talking about the line of succession. You say Stanley Castleton would take over after his father’s death, but what if he wouldn’t? I mean, here’s Castleton’s son-weak, ineffectual, everything Castleton isn’t. And here’s the grandson-young, sharp, aggressive, just coming in to his own. A go-getter, playboy type, a chip off the old block.”

“Are you saying-”

“Sure I am. What if Castleton’s plan was to bypass old Stanley and put David in charge?”

“Could he do that?”

“How the hell should I know? It’s just an idea. If he was planning that and Stanley found out, he just might not like it too much.”

“So he kills his own son?”

“Hey, Mark, isn’t it the quiet, repressed types that always take a chainsaw to their family and wind up on the front page of the Daily News?”

Taylor shook his head gloomily. “I suppose so. As a theory, I can’t say I like it much.”

“Me neither. But let’s not pass it up. Get your men digging around, see what you can get.”

Taylor scribbled a note. “Okay, will do.”

“What about Danby?”

Taylor shook his head. “There again, it’s a dead end. Company man, fifteen years with the firm. Business manager, troubleshooter, whatever you want to call him-has no official title I can tell. Basically, Milton Castleton’s right hand. No personal interest in the company. Just your basic hundred-grand-a-year wage slave.

“Vices, none. Doesn’t drink, smoke, gamble or do drugs. Single, never been married, doesn’t chase after women. Not gay, either, just not interested. Workaholic. Married to his job.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, why couldn’t one of these guys turn out to be a child molester or something you could use? Anyway, I got nothing.”

“Where was he that night?”

“If you mean an alibi, I assume he hasn’t got one. The guy lives alone. But these people are all hostile and won’t talk to us. And the cops aren’t askin’ ’cause they don’t give a shit-they got their murderer. So there you are.”

“Yeah. What about the roommate? Jeff Bowers?”

“A little better there. He’s a young guy, twenty-nine, an actor, hangs around with the theater crowd and might be into drugs. But what the hell does that get you? He’s got no connection at all to Castleton Industries except for Herbert Clay.”

“That could be enough.”

“Anyway, he’s got an alibi for the time of the murder. He was on stage in a show.”

“That late at night?”

“So he says. I’m checkin’ it out, but why would he claim something so easy to verify if it wasn’t true?”

Steve rubbed his head. “Jesus. One dead end after another. You got anything else?”

Taylor frowned. “I got a suggestion. I’m not sure you’ll like it.”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, it’s really none of my business. But we’re friends, so I’m gonna say it.”

“What’s that, Mark?”

“I been thinking this ever since I heard Dirkson was prosecuting himself.” He gestured to the newspapers on his desk-”And ever since I saw this.

“You got a problem with this case, Steve. In more ways than one. The girl typin’ nude-well, that’s a big bummer. You can fight to keep it out of court, but so what. It’ll be like the Oliver North trial. You’re not gonna find twelve people in all of Manhattan who haven’t heard about it.”

“I know that. So?”

“So the people on the jury are gonna know. And human nature bein’ what it is, at least half of them are gonna think a girl who runs around nude is the type of girl who’d kill someone.”

“I know that Mark. What’s the point?”

“The point is, you got a big image problem. You want to build your client up, make her seem respectable, make her seem the type of girl who wouldn’t kill someone. It’s not gonna be easy, and, frankly, you being her lawyer isn’t gonna help.”

Steve looked at him. Taylor held up his hands. “Hey, no offense, but I gotta say it. Imagewise, you’re the wrong lawyer for the case. You look like a refugee from the sixties. Ordinarily that’s all right, but this time it isn’t gonna play. The girl doesn’t need a hippie standing next to her. She needs someone respectable and conservative. Some pillar of the community whose presence would build up her image.”

“You telling me to get off the case, Mark?”

Taylor shook his head. “No. I’m only suggesting you might secure associate counsel.”

“You mean Fitzpatrick?”

“I was thinking of Fitzpatrick. He’s just the right image. The white hair, the three-piece suit. Plus he’s overweight and got chubby cheeks, the well-fed, prosperous look. Fitzpatrick, Blackburn and Weed is a prestigious, conservative firm. His standing up for the girl would lend weight.

“Of course, I’m not sure if Fitzpatrick would want to work with you again.”

“Thanks a lot, Mark.”

“You know what I mean. Look, Steve, maybe I’m out of line, it just seems to me having Fitzpatrick on the team might help. I hope you’re not offended.”

Steve thought a moment. “No, I’m not offended, Mark. In fact, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”