Barry Friedman - Dead End (11 page)

Detective Larry Wagner held his hand over the
mouthpiece of the phone and yelled across the squad room. “Hey, Al. Some woman
wants to talk to you. On three.”

Maharos punched the illuminated button on his
phone. “Maharos.”

“Hi, Al. This is Karen Vandergrift.”

Maharos’ pulse rate zoomed. Since he had left her
in Canton, three days before, he had spent more idle minutes than he would
admit, thinking about her. Cozy, sexy fantasies. He had tried to push them from
his mind. Hell, she was probably happily married to some handsome hunk around
her own age. He did some mental arithmetic but developed a block trying to
subtract thirty-one or thirty-two from forty-six, his age.

He felt his voice tighten. “Hello. How’re you
coming along?”

“Let me give you an update. I talked to Lance
Harwood in the Metro Detention Center. He never heard of Gibson. He’s still
peed off that they won’t set bail for him. Hey, that lawyer, Lavant, is
something out of a comic strip.

“Anyway, I just got back from New Philadelphia.
Mrs. Hamberger didn’t know anything about Gibson. So far two strikes, no hits.”

Maharos said, “George Horner’s widow didn’t know
Gibson—or any of the others. Strike three.”

Vandergrift said, “Dr. Hanson went back over the
autopsy reports of Burnstein and Gibson. He’s coming in this afternoon to go
over the whole thing with McAllister and me. One of the reasons I wanted to get
in touch with you is to ask if you would fax us the autopsy reports and the
pictures of the gunshot wounds in the cases you’ve been following. We’d like to
compare them with what we’ve got.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll bring them
myself. What time’s your meeting with Hanson?”

“Three-thirty. Hey, that will be great!”

“See you.”

Maharos was in the Men’s Room adjoining the
detective’s locker room, removing his five o’clock shadow at one-thirty when
Frank Fiala walked in. Maharos glanced at Fiala’s reflection in the mirror and
went on shaving.

“You never did that for me when I was your
partner,” said Fiala.

Maharos went on shaving.

Fiala said, “Let me guess: Your Canton partner is
gorgeous.”

Maharos rinsed the razor.

Fiala said, “…Not only is she gorgeous, but
she’s crazy for bald-headed older men.”

Maharos dried the razor.

“…Especially if they are of the Greek
persuasion.”

Maharos dried his face and splashed Canoe on his
freshly-shaven cheeks.

Fiala went on, “If I didn’t have to take a leak,
I’d kiss you myself.”

Maharos slipped on his shirt and started walking
out. He said, “Don’t forget to wash your hands when you’re finished.”

He was at his desk putting on his suit jacket,
when he saw Ed Bragg beckoning to him through the glass partition that
separated the lieutenant’s office from the large squad room. He stood at the
open door of Bragg’s office. “Calling me, Ed?”

“Yeah. You in a hurry?” He sniffed the air.
“What’ja do, raid Hattie’s whorehouse again?”

Maharos rubbed his chin. “I didn’t get a chance
to shave before I came on duty.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a couple of
minutes. I’m going to—“ He noticed a figure slumped in the easy chair in front
of Bragg’s desk. “Oh. I didn’t see you. How are you, Shelly?”

Sheldon Ehrlich covered the police beat for the
Youngstown Herald. He was a good investigative reporter, which was to say he
was a pain in the ass to the men and women of the Youngstown P.D.

Ehrlich waved a hand in Maharos’ direction.

Bragg said, “Shelly and I were just jawing about
the Horner investigation.” He gave Maharos a hard look. “I told him that you
were handling it.”

 
Maharos
caught Bragg’s signal. He turned to the reporter. “Yeah. Well, there’s not much
I can tell you. We’re still tracking down leads.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Huh?”

“You saying there’s nothing to tell, or there’s
something but you can’t talk about it?” He wasn’t going to let Maharos off
easily.

“Believe me, when there’s something the public
should know, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

“Who’s going to be the judge of that, you or me?”

Bragg held up a hand, “Hey, Shelly, lay off the
guy, for Christ sake. He’s got a job to do.”

Ehrlich sat up in the chair. “So do I. I’ve been
hearing all kinds of stories that Maharos is running around the countryside
asking people about homicide cases that are out of your jurisdiction.”

Maharos scowled. “Where’d you get your
information?”

“I’ve got sources. Am I warm?”

At this stage in his investigation, Maharos was
trying to keep it out of the headlines. He knew that public knowledge of a
serial killer’s presence would only cause confusion. Every kook in the country
would climb out of the woodwork and claim responsibility for everything from
the Lindberg kidnapping to Judge Crater’s disappearance. Yet, he could not tell
an outright lie. When and if he finally caught up with whoever it was he was
looking for, he wanted to maintain his credibility.

“Shelly, don’t press me. You know police work
well enough to know that we’ve got to have breathing room.”

“Background?”

“That’s all I’ll say.”

The reporter turned to the lieutenant. “Ed?”

Bragg shrugged and turned his palms up. His
portrayal of innocence was Academy Award caliber.

The four of them were hunched over Sheriff
McAllister’s desk, peering down at the array of Polaroids. Dr. Harry Hanson
squinted through a small hand lens. “There’s no question. The placement of the
wounds in all of these is identical. There are powder burns around all the neck
wounds so the gun barrel must have been placed very close to the skin. The skin
of the lower entry sites, that is, those between the shoulder blades, was
protected by the clothing each of the victims wore.”

Hanson went on to explain that the bullets took
somewhat different paths once they entered the bodies of the victims. The
reason was that when they hit bony structures, the missiles were thrown off
course. The result was the same in all: death.

Vandergrift said, “Dr. Hanson, how easy is it to
place a bullet wound in exactly the same place, like it was done here?”

“Not easy at all. It takes someone with some
knowledge of anatomy. There are landmarks, of course. But you have to know what
to look for.”

McAllister said, “You mean our suspect may be a
doctor?”

“Well, sure, someone in the medical field would
have this information, of course. But I can think of others, too. For example,
I’ve got a lab diener, a pathology assistant, who would know enough about
anatomy to pick the right spots. And he’s had no formal medical training.”

Maharos said, “While I’m thinking of it, so far
no one knows about the signature wounds except for seven people: the four of
us, my former partner, my chief, and Lieutenant Birtcher of Canton P.D.
Homicide Division. I don’t have to tell you how important it is to protect that
information. The press is already sniffing around. Just before I came down here
I was dogged by a reporter who, I think, has an idea that we’re looking at
serial murders. I’m not sure how long we’re going to be able to stonewall. Once
it leaks, you can imagine how hard it’s going to be to work this case.”

Vandergrift turned to McAllister. “What do you
make of the fact that each of these victims was shot by a different gun?”

“I don’t know. Seems odd that the killer would go
to the trouble of changing guns and at the same time leave his signature by the
way he shoots them. Hell, he or she wasn’t trying to hide the fact that the
same person was killing all these people.”
 

Vandergrift said, “Maybe the killer wants it
known that one person is responsible.”

“Either that or doesn’t care one way or another,”
said Maharos.

McAllister glanced at his watch. The meeting was
over.

Outside McAllister’s office, Maharos said,
“Where’s a good place to eat? I think I’ll have dinner here before I head
back.”

“If you like seafood, there’s The Whaler. It’s
only about three blocks from here,” said Vandergrift.

“Sounds good to me. What about you. Want to join
me, or do you have a family to feed? I’ll even spring for the meal.”

Vandergrift grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.
I’m my family. Sure I’ll join you, but we’ll go Dutch—and you’ll have to give
me time to change out of this uniform.”

“Okay, but I’ll buy the wine.”

I’m my
family
, she had said. Maharos’
anticipation level was rising to the red zone.

They had reached the parking lot. Vandergrift
said, “Follow my car, it’s that dirty yellow Chevy. My place is only ten
minutes away. I’m a quick change artist.”

Maharos sat in an easy chair in the spotless
living room of Karen Vandergrift’s two-bedroom, condominium while she went into
the bedroom to change. He gazed around at the simple blonde furnishings and
down at the beige shag carpeting, wondering how she kept everything so damned
clean and neat while she worked at a full-time job. He got up to examine more
closely a framed photograph on the mantle of the fireplace at one end of the
living room. The woman could have been a smiling Karen in her mid-fifties. The
husky, square-jawed man next to her looked about sixty. His gray hair was crew
cut and he stood with a stiffly erect, military bearing, faint posed smile on
his lips. Maharos looked around for evidence of a man in her life, found none.

Vandergrift called from the bedroom, “Fix
yourself a drink, if you’d like. The makings are in the wood cabinet in the
living room. If you’re any kind of detective you’ll know where to find the
ice.”

The low cabinet held bottles of liquor, tonic and
soda, and several cocktail glasses. “Can I get something for you?” he called.

“Okay. Fix me a vodka and tonic, easy on the
vodka.”

He mixed two and carried her drink to the closed
bedroom door. “Room service,” he called, and handed it to her when she stuck
her bare arm through the slightly opened door.

When she walked out into the living room twenty
minutes later, she was wearing an emerald green dress, a thin, gold link chain
at her throat, large pearl earrings and high-heeled black pumps.

“Now, that’s how a deputy sheriff should dress,”
he said.

“Bet you can’t even tell where I carry my service
revolver.”

“Mind if I frisk you?”

“Not until you read me my rights—and see that I’m
fed.”

He wasn’t sure if, with all the banter, she was
saying, try again later. He let it pass.

The Whaler was a franchised seafood restaurant
outfitted with the obligatory fish net ceiling, starfish and mounted oars on
the walls and tanks of tropical fish used as room partitions. Maharos’
mesquite-broiled trout was well filleted and tasty. Vandergrift had the
Atlantic red snapper and pronounced it “delicious.” They finished the remains
of the bottle of a California Chardonnay while they sat staring into the
flickering oil lamp in the center of the table and each learned who the other
was.

Karen had been an army “brat.” Her father was a
regular army master sergeant and during a thirty-year career, moved the family
from Fort Ord, where Karen was born, through posts from the Philippines to
Germany. She had a brother who was a West Point graduate and now served with
NATO in Belgium. Karen had gone to Ohio State University while her father was
stationed at Camp McKinley outside Dayton. In college she had taken pre-law
courses, but after graduation decided against going on to law school. “I
decided to become a housewife instead. Poor choice.”

Maharos waited, saying nothing.

“Tom was in law school at Ohio State when we met.
After we were married, I took a job at Lazarus’s Department Store selling house
wares, and hated every minute of it. I had taken some courses in criminal
investigation while I was in college, was fascinated with the subject, and,
when Tom graduated, I applied for admission to the Franklin County Sheriff’s
Academy in Columbus.” She smiled peering over the lamplight. “Dr. Freud would
probably say I was trying to emulate my father—you know, the uniform.

“Well, to complete my long, boring story, Tom
couldn’t take my long on-duty shifts, and found some company to while away his
loneliness—one of the secretaries in his office. It really didn’t take very
astute detective work on my part to find out about it. I just walked into the
house, when I got off duty earlier than expected one day, and figured out that
the dress, bra, slip and panties strewn from the living room to the bedroom
were probably not my husband’s. I reasoned that any guy stupid enough to bring
his toys home didn’t deserve me. Just like magic, my husband turned into an
ex-.”