The Diehard (9 page)

Fourteen

The waning heat of the corpse had been sufficient to cause it to melt down into the old snow so that it could not be easily seen. The crows saw it, however. Two boys were out with their .410 shotguns, looking for rabbits. They had tried to sneak up on the crows but that is always impossible. When the crows flew away, the boys went over to see what the birds had been after. They expected to find a dead dog.

The Wayne County Sheriffs department was first on the scene, but then a lot of other people showed up, including the state police, the coroner's office and the Ecorse police. What the .44 Magnum had started, the activity of the crows had aggravated. It was no longer possible, for instance, to tell what color the eyes might have been. And there were many white stains on the corpse.

It was a patrolman from the Ecorse police who tramped around and suddenly reached down into the snow. He came up with a revolver. Part of the grip was broken off.

“Hey, look at this,” he yelled. The gun was passed from hand to hand before a state cop angrily interceded, too late to save fingerprint evidence.

Frank Zeppanuk saw the gun when it came into the forensics lab. He immediately called Mulheisen.

“Must have seemed like a good idea to shoot up the identifying characteristics that way,” Frank told Mulheisen when the latter arrived. “It almost worked. I haven't gotten very far on my matchups, but I'm willing to bet you a box of cigars that this guy was the character who was in the tub with Mrs. Clippert. There were two types of blood found, you know, and one of them was Mrs. Clippert's. The fragment from the pistol handle fits perfectly and the hair matches the samples from the tub. The blood match will be done shortly.”

“We still don't have a name, though,” Mulheisen said. “Homicide is checking the gun registration.”

Frank pushed up his dark rimmed glasses with a forefinger. “You notice that the gun is an H & R .32.”

“Yes,” Mulheisen said, “and I suppose the ballistics match the slugs found in Mrs. Clippert.”

“The best match was with the slug that came out of the mattress,” Frank said, “but any one of them will do. They all came from this gun.”

“Bully for you,” Mulheisen said. He gave Frank a cigar and left.

The pistol was registered to Mr. Emil Earle. Mulheisen drove out to Mr. Earle's residence in Redford in the company of McClain and Joe Greene. Mr. Earle was getting ready to leave for his job on the swing shift at Pontiac.

“Yes,” Earle said, “I own an H & R .32. Or did. It was stole last fall.”

“Why didn't you report its loss?” Joe Greene said.

“I did! And the gun was registered, too. I kept it in my cabin, up north. It was stole last fall along with a buncha other stuff. Some bastard broke in and damn near cleaned the whole joint out.”

Mr. Earle showed Mulheisen a map of the area. It was a map printed up by a development corporation showing the layout of numbered lots around a peculiar-looking lake, which consisted of a ten-acre central body out of which a dozen or more perfectly straight “legs” had been dredged. It resembled a child's drawing of the sun.

“Yeah, they went in there with a dragline,” confirmed Mr. Earle. “It used to be called Paton's Pond, but the corporation
changed the name to Black Beaver Lake. Maybe it ain't like building on a real, natural lake, but the land was cheap and it's right off the freeway. You can get there in a coupla hours. The wife and kids love it and the lake is well stocked with bass. I figure it's an investment, you know?”

The lots were laid out along the legs, or channels, of the lake. Mulheisen could just picture it: an instant holiday village of prefabricated cabins and cottages jammed together like a rusticated version of the suburbs from which these vacationers were fleeing. There would be a thousand kids running along the dusty streets of the community all summer. Teen-aged boys and girls would roam the streets at dusk and drive to neighboring towns at night for movies and beer parties. The wives would lie in the shade and talk to one another, just as they had done in Redford, or Harper Woods, or Royal Oak. The husbands would do a bit of desultory fishing and a lot of beer drinking while they watched the Tigers on television. They professed to want to get out of the city: but they insisted on bringing the city with them.

The officers got a list of other stolen items and the name of the county sheriff there and left. Sheriff Tate was not in. Deputy Barrett was. He told Mulheisen over the phone that he had sent a complete list of goods stolen in several break-ins that had occurred last fall around Black Beaver Lake.

“We figure these things'll be fenced in your larger cities,” Deputy Barrett said, “so we sent the lists to Flint, Detroit, Grand Rapids and so forth. One thing you have to realize, of course, is that these people all have insurance. They'll report a lot of things that maybe weren't stolen.”

Within an hour, Mulheisen and McClain had several teams on the streets going from hock shop to junk shop to known fences, looking for the goods. Mulheisen's crew was from the Ninth Precinct, a couple of bulldogs named Jensen and Field.

The weather was gray, damp, cold and sloppy. The worst kind of Detroit weather. The streets were filled with Christmas shoppers and shoplifters, pickpockets, molesters, and guys who exposed themselves on parking-ramp staircases. Traffic was mercilessly heavy and there were multiple-car accidents. The hallways of the precincts were crowded with shoplifters and purse snatchers, waiting
for interrogation and adding their greasy head stains to the walls. The drunk tanks filled early.

Mulheisen thought of his blue-haired mother lolling in balmy Miami. Soon he would receive the first of the post cards from the dog tracks, the jai alai courts, and the house cards from the Fontainebleau. He also thought of Lou Spencer. There was no time to see her now.

Fifteen

December twenty-first dawned gray, damp, cold and sloppy again The papers were still talking about the Indian Village murder., despite the fact that there had been over a dozen murders in town since that one. Mulheisen would have preferred staying off the streets where the Christmas hysteria was mounting. But there was work to do. He went over the situation with McClain in the morning.

“The basic case, the murder, is essentially solved,” Mulheisen said. “We know that the man who was found in the field by the airport was the same man who was in the house on Seneca Street. He is almost certainly the man who shot Mrs. Clippert. At the same time, the case is wide open. We don't know why he was in the tub with her, if he was working alone, what he was actually doing in the house in the first place, or who he was, even.”

“That's a lot you don't know,” McClain said.

“If we can get a lead on his identity through the burglary stuff, we'll be well on our way to clearing up that end of it,” Mulheisen said.

“If,” snorted McClain, his big feet propped up on the desk, on top of a file folder. “What about a connection with our pal the Flying Clipper?”

Mulheisen sucked at his teeth. “There's a curious coincidence,” he said, “except that in a murder case there aren't any coincidences. The gun was stolen from a cabin not eight miles from Clippert's summer place. In fact, it was stolen from a so-called holiday development that is owned by a friend of Clippert's. A man named Carl Joyner. I'm going to see him this morning.”

“That's a pretty vague connection,” McClain said. “How'd you get onto that?”

Mulheisen smiled. “Secret sources.”

“Hmmph. Well, we got a possible motive in the insurance policy that can't be ignored, even if it is rather obvious. I don't know if a jury would go for it. If a jury wouldn't go for it, the prosecutor won't. It'd be useful if it's backed up with a lot of other evidence.”

Mulheisen ticked off his fingers. “We have a murder weapon, or one of them, coming from an area near the Clipper's summer home, we have a motive, and we have a suspect in Clippert who—thanks to the Fidelity Funding swindle—is criminally suspect. It's not enough, I know, but at least he can no longer pose as the Pure One.”

“Mul, don't marry yourself to a single suspect,” McClain warned. “You know that can lead to grief.”

“I know. I'm fighting it. I'm off to see this guy Joyner.”

Mulheisen drove out John Lodge Expressway through vicious traffic. Near Northland Shopping Center he got off the freeway and cruised past the Fidelity Funding Building. It was one of several new office buildings, all rather similar. They were five to ten stories high, of prestressed concrete with lots of glass. They were separated from one another by undeveloped commercial lots and stood on individual islands of their own parking lots. The lots were heaped with snow.

The Fidelity Funding lot was only partially cleared. The few cars parked there were gray U.S. Government Motor Pool vehicles and blue State of Michigan cars. The building looked like an empty honeycomb, with its deepset windows, only a few of which were lit. Unlike the neighboring buildings there was no aluminum Christmas tree in the lobby. Auditors and investigators were its only occupants, still poring over the books and analyzing the computer
programs to find out how bad the swindle had been, and how it had been accomplished.

Mulheisen drove on by, all the way out past Bloomfield Hills. Out on the highway he found a model home display that had a huge sign over it, saying “Gitchee-Gumee Estates.” The lot was filled with prefabricated model vacation homes of the red cedar and glass-front style. The models were connected by a wooden walkway that ran through the display like a spider web. The business office was in one of the front models, one described by a wooden placard as “The Laurentian, only $15,000, erected on your own lakefront property.”

Carl Joyner was an affable fat man with a pink face and white hair. He wore the kind of glasses that changed their tint according to the amount of light. They were pretty clear today and Mulheisen could see his pink-rimmed eyes and white lashes. He was perched on a desk in the front office along with several salesmen in sports coats.

There was a secretary with a short skirt and a beehive hairdo. There was also a bronze enamel coffee urn with plastic-foam cups stacked next to it. There were no customers and the boys were drinking something other than coffee in the plastic cups. Joyner offered Mulheisen some of their beverage, from a blue-velvet-wrapped square bottle of Canadian whiskey.

“Holiday cheers, Sergeant,” he said.

Mulheisen smiled and said, “Could we talk privately, Mr. Joyner?”

They went into an inner room, one which in the home would be the master bedroom, but was presently the boss's office.

“Actually, you're lucky to catch me here,” Joyner said. “I spend most of my time in my downtown offices. This is only one of several development subsidiaries I'm involved in. I just stopped by to bring the boys a holiday bottle or two and pass out bonus checks.”

“What's the name of your parent organization?”

“National Holiday Properties,” Joyner said. “It's pretty big. We operate all over, through subsidiaries like this one. Georgia, Florida, Michigan, the far West, you name it. But Gitchee-Gumee is one of our most valuable operations.”

Mulheisen listened to this kind of talk for awhile, wishing to put Joyner quite at ease. They sipped the Canadian and Joyner was very friendly. Mulheisen turned the conversation to Clippert.

“A wonderful man,” Joyner said enthusiastically. “I've known him for years. This is a terrible thing he's going through. I sure hope he comes out of it all right. I always thought very highly of Art. To me he's the kind of guy who could go all the way, like he used to against Ohio State and UCLA. This is kind of a setback though, isn't it?”

“What is?” Mulheisen asked. “The murder?”

“Well, yes, that too, of course. I meant the Fidelity Funding thing, mainly. The loss of his wife is a terrible, terrible thing. It can't have anything to do with Art though, I'm sure. No, it's the Fidelity Funding thing. If it hadn't been for that, why I believe a lot of people—myself included—were looking forward to seeing Art in the governor's mansion.”

“You can't mean it,” Mulheisen said.

Joyner looked wise and solemn, or struggled to. “I'm not kidding, Sergeant. Oh, I don't mean next year or the year after. It would mean a term in the state senate first, probably. But ultimately, he's the kind of guy who goes all the way. He's got the young, Kennedy-type looks, the early glamour of the athlete—a great amateur who wouldn't turn pro. He's got brains, money, education, a pretty wi—oops.” Joyner was more successful this time in looking solemn. “That part's all changed now, isn't it?” He was thoughtful. “I wonder if even that wouldn't help him, actually. I mean, look at what's-his-name, Percy of Illinois.”

“Yes, he's hardly down and out,” Mulheisen said wryly. He accepted another dollop of the Canadian.

“True,” Joyner said, “but this Fidelity Funding crap is going to be hard to shake. Even if he isn't indicted. The post-Watergate mentality, you know, it's making it pretty tough for folks in the public life. Not that it isn't a good thing, in a way—kind of clears the air and all that.”

Joyner looked like a white rabbit as he hunched forward, tucking his plump belly under the edge of the desk. “Now what I'd like to see the boy do is come in with me. This holiday estate business is booming, and recession or no recession, I think it's
going to maintain. Folks want to get out of the cities, get away from the niggers, if you know what I mean. You take a thing like this Gitchee-Gumee—that's an Indian name, you know—why, we can't develop these things fast enough. Everybody wants lake property. Are you married, Sergeant?”

“No,” Mulheisen said. “And I'm not interested. What I am interested in, though, are all these burglaries at Black Beaver Lake.”

“What about them?” Joyner was imperturbable. “I understand there's been no great loss. Besides, the Black Beaver Lake Community Association, which we sponsored, has hired a permanent security staff. Something that should have been done from the start, I guess. But that ought to take care of the nuisance.”

“I understand that Clippert has a place near there, at Jasper Lake.”

“That's right,” Joyner said. “Used to be his father-in-law's place, old Axel Bodnar. Quite a character, Axel was. I have a place up there myself.”

“What is it, sort of a community? A fancier version of Black Beaver?”

“No, nothing like it,” Joyner said. “You're talking about actual estates when you talk about Jasper. Old houses, a lot of them. All quite private. Oh, we get together now and then, some of us, for a dinner party, swim in each other's pools. But privacy is the big thing, you know.”

“Don't you swim in the lake?” Mulheisen wanted to know.

“The lake's kind of cold,” Joyner said. “I don't go for that pool stuff much, myself, I burn too easily. But we all have one.”

“Ever had any problem with break-ins?”

Joyner waved his hand. “Oh, it happens, from time to time. Usually it's just kids from the farms or the nearby towns. I guess they get a little resentful. A little vandalism, that's all.”

“How about when the houses at Black Beaver were hit? Any similar activity at Jasper Lake?”

“Come to think of it, there was,” Joyner said. “Can't blame the burglars, either. There's more valuables in my dining room than in a whole block of cottages at Black Beaver. But I was lucky. They didn't hit my place. Hit Art's, though.”

“Did they?” Mulheisen's expression was bland, masking his interest. “That's kind of odd, Joyner. Why didn't he report it?”

“Didn't he?” Joyner said, innocently.

“No.”

“How would you know?” Joyner asked.

“I asked the sheriff up there, Tate.”

“Now why would you do that?”

“Curiosity,” Mulheisen said.

“Killed the cat, you know,” Joyner said.

Mulheisen smiled, baring his long teeth. “Old sayings like that often have a deep core of truth, they tell me. Maybe that's how they get to be old sayings.” He gazed directly into Joyner's pink eyes.

“What about Clippert's burglary, Joyner?”

The chubby man seemed uncomfortable, then he shrugged. “Oh well, it was nothing, I'm sure. I don't know why Art didn't report it. But heck, you make it sould like
he
committed a crime, instead of being the victim.”

“As a matter of fact,” Mulheisen said, “the citizen is enjoined to notify the proper authority in the event of the commission of any crime. If he doesn't it's something like withholding evidence, or interfering with a police officer.”

Joyner seemed to get the point. “I suppose you're going to lay this on Art, too, as if he didn't have enough trouble.”

“I doubt it. It's really no concern of mine. I'm just curious. But if I can't satisfy my curiosity I'll have to dig deeper, and then the whole business could get out of hand.”

Joyner sighed. “Well, what do you want to know?”

“Did Clippert tell you something about the burglary?”

“Yes. Just in passing. He seemed to think it was a funny incident. As I recall, he had gone up to the house after work, one evening in late October. He got there late and caught the burglars at their work.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yes, or well—I guess I might as well tell you, his wife wasn't with him. Maybe that's why he didn't report it. He didn't want to get the girl in trouble, or himself, I expect.”

“Oh, I think he could probably have kept her out of it,” Mulheisen said. “Who was the girl, anyway?”

“He didn't say. Anyhow, he was about to go in the house when he saw a light. He had the girl go back to the car and wait. Then he went in. There were two guys, working different rooms. He took them one by one.”

“What do you mean, ‘took them'?”

Joyner made a plump fist and stuck out his forefinger. “You know, ‘Hands up, podner.’ “

“He had a gun.”

“That's right. He carries one in the glove compartment of his car. Damn! Now I suppose you'll get on him for that.”

“If it's not properly registered,” Mulheisen said. “So he had the two men. What happened then?”

“He let them go.”

“He let them go? Why?”

“That's the funny part. He said it was because he recognized one of the guys.”

“A friend?”

“No, that would be ridiculous, of course. No, he said that he had known one of the guys from something that had happened years back. I think he said it was something from his Air Force days. At first he didn't recognize the guy, he said, but the guy recognized him and reminded him of this other time they had met.”

“Did he say who the guy was?”

“No, and he didn't say what the earlier occasion was, either,” Joyner said. “I asked him. He was vague about it. ‘Oh, just a favor I did once,’ he said. Quite a coincidence, isn't it?”

Mulheisen agreed. “He didn't tell you anything else about the men? Didn't describe them at all?”

Joyner shook his head.

Mulheisen sat thinking. Finally, he said, “You've been very helpful, Joyner. This informxation may be irrelevant to my present investigation, but you never can tell. By the way, did you know Mrs. Clippert very well?”

“Oh, I used to see her with Art, that's all. A very beautiful woman. She was something in a bathing suit, believe me. But kind of stuck-up, you know. I don't believe I ever had a conversation with her.”

“How about your wife? What did she think of Jane Clippert?”

“She liked her all right, I guess. But Jane was a lot younger. Just a girl, really.”

Mulheisen shrugged. “Well, what I'd like now, Joyner, is for you to write down a complete statement, everything you've just told me, and sign it.”

“Aw, come on now, man,” Joyner said. “I've been cooperative. I'm a busy man, I have to get back downtown.”

“To pass out more Canadian? I'm serious, Joyner. I wasn't kidding about the interfering with an officer's business or withholding evidence. I'm not asking you to come to Headquarters, but I could. Why don't you just get your secretary in here, dictate the statement, she can type it up and you can sign it. I'll wait.”