The Good Friday Murder (4 page)

I had a lot of work ahead of me. Before going upstairs to get ready for bed, I tidied the dining table but left my notes and microfilm copies in separate piles, neat and accessible. I had more; questions than answers. Tomorrow I would begin to ask them.

I hooked up with Melanie Gross the next morning and we walked, ran, and talked.

“I was there Tuesday night,” she said as we rounded the first corner. “Do you really think you can find out anything about a murder that happened so long ago?”

“I don't know, but I've already started and I've learned a few things.”

Melanie broke into a smile. “You did? When? What have you done?”

“I spent yesterday at the New York Public Library reading old newspapers on microfilm.”

“That's fabulous. Have you got anything?”

“Just a deeper respect for the Miranda warnings.”

“Oh?”

“Those twins were questioned for hours without a lawyer. I'm sure you know what that means.”

“Was there a confession?”

“I don't think they ever got anything out of them. I'm going to Brooklyn today to see if I can dig up the file on the case. I'd like to see whatever records there are of the questioning, and I'd like to see the autopsy report.”

“Will you be able to read it?”

“Probably not, but I'll take it to Aunt Meg's doctor, who's also my cousin Gene's doctor. I'm sure he'll help.”

“Listen.” Mel slowed her pace, and I slowed my own to stay even. It's tough to run and talk at the same time. “I'd like to tell you how I feel about Greenwillow.”

“Sure.”

“If James Talley isn't in the group, I have nothing against the house being in Oakwood. I frankly wouldn't want it next door to me, because we'd never sell the house. But I don't object to their buying the Aldrich property. It's the possibility of that man being a murderer that stops me. I have children and I'm concerned about their welfare. You don't have to have kids to understand that.”

“Of course.”

“If you really find that someone else did that murder—and I can't imagine how you can do that—I'll support the variance.”

“Thanks, Mel.” We had come to a stop in front of my house. “I really appreciate your support. And I'm going to come back for it in September.”

“You'll get it. But not if there's still a cloud over Talley's head. Okay?”

“Okay.” I waved as she jogged down the street to her house. It was time to start fighting clouds.

I drove down Ocean Avenue before I went to the police station. It was a wide street with old apartment houses, most of them about six stories high, and interspersed here and there with a one- or two-family house. Young mothers pushed strollers, and older men and women hobbled along with canes, walkers, or companions for support. The building the Talleys had lived in was of the same vintage as the others, probably a once grand place to live.

I drove slowly along the great avenue, crossing Quentin Road and then Avenue R and Avenue S. They had walked up the street—I wondered on which side—forty years ago, not knowing their mother would the horribly that afternoon or evening. The autopsy report estimated the time of her death as “sometime on Good Friday,” not a very scientific conclusion. Someone even linked the brutal murder to the crucifixion. I found that hard to believe.

A car honked behind me, and I put on some speed and found the Sixty-fifth precinct.

Outside, the police station looked like every picture I had seen on television or in the movies. (We watched TV at St. Stephen's sometimes in the evening.) Inside, there was a high counter with a stone front, wood top, and stainless steel railing separating me from the uniformed people on the other side. One of them was a woman, and she asked politely if she could help me.

“I hope so. I'm looking into a murder that took place in this precinct forty years ago.”

I don't know what I expected, but what she said left me almost speechless.

“Sorry, can't help you,” she said, voice and expression dismissing me.

It was such a complete turndown, I didn't know how to proceed. “Do you think someone else could help me?” I asked finally.

“No.” She turned away and spoke to a male officer.

I waited for her to return, but she obviously thought she had done with me. “Excuse me,” I said a little loudly. “I really need some help.”

She came back. “Ma'am, there's no one here who was even alive forty years ago.”

I looked around and had to agree with her. “There have to be reports, records,” I persisted. “I want to see the file.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled to show her irritation. “Maybe the desk officer can help you.” She pointed to my right. “Ovuh theah.”

“Thank you very much.” I smiled to show I was grateful and went to the designated desk. A police officer was sitting there, and if the woman I had just spoken to had sounded weary, this one looked on the verge of sleep. He glanced at his watch as I approached.

“Good morning,” I said as cheerily as I could manage.

“What can I do for you?” the officer asked.

“My name is Christine Bennett,” I said.

“Ah-hah,” he responded automatically.

“And I'm looking into a murder that happened in this precinct forty years ago.”

He practically rolled his eyes. “Ah-hah,” he said as I spoke.

“It's very important, Officer—” I glanced at the name tag just below his badge “—Korb.”

“Ah-hah.”

I was somewhat disconcerted. “The men who were thought to be guilty of the crime—”

Officer Korb was shaking his head. “See, lady,” he said, interrupting me finally with a new syllable, “we don't even have the records for that in this building. This building wasn't here forty years ago.”

“But surely those—”

“ 'Scuse me,” a voice behind me said. “Is this something the squad can help you with?”

I turned to see a kind of nice-looking guy about my age in a sport jacket.

“I don't know,” I said.

“Whyn't you give it a shot, Sarge?” Officer Korb said, relief all over his tired face.

“Hi, I'm Sergeant Brooks.” He stuck out his free right hand and we shook. “Come on upstairs.”

We went up to a room filled with desks, mostly men and a couple of women working at them. There was an empty one at the far end, and Sergeant Brooks hung his things up, took off his jacket, and made himself comfortable at the desk, while telling me to do the same.

“Officer Korb's a little overworked,” he said with a grin that let me know Officer Korb had never been overworked in his life.

“I could see that.”

“What seems to be your problem?”

Here we go again, I thought, psyching myself up for another try. “Believe it or not, I'm looking into a murder that happened in this precinct forty years ago, and I'd like to see whatever records the police department has on it. I can give you names and dates and—”

I had hoped to say enough that he would be unable to turn
me down flatly, but he stopped me. “Whoa, hold on.
When
did this happen?”

“April 7, 1950. The victim's name was Alberta Talley.”

“Alberta Tally.” He wrote on a piece of folded paper.

“E-Y,”
I corrected him, reading his writing upside down.

“Oh, sorry.” He scratched it out and wrote it over. “Can I ask why you're interested in something that happened forty years ago? Did it involve a relative of yours?”

“No. It was a murder without a conviction, but two people have spent forty years in a prison atmosphere because it was thought that they did it. I don't know whether they did or not, but I need to find out. Something very important depends on it.”

“Okay, tell me about it.”

“Now?”

“Sure. Talk. They pay me to listen.”

I said, “Thank you. Today you'll earn it.”

He was a good listener, and I told him almost everything I knew, as well as why I needed the information. He took notes in a spiral pad and asked occasional questions, and I drew a sense of confidence from that. When I finished my recitation, I sat back in my chair. “That's it,” I said.

“Okay.” He tapped his pencil on the desk twice. “I think I can find that file for you, but I can't do it now. It's not in this building. Files that old are in the borough headquarters. I'll go down there and hunt them up.”

“You will?” I must have sounded incredulous.

“I'll give it a shot and see what happens.”

“Will the autopsy report be in the file?”

“A copy should be.”

“That's great.” I felt as though I were already halfway there.

“Better give me a call tomorrow before you come down. What borough do you live in?”

“Borough? Oh, you mean New York. I live in Oakwood.”

“You came down here from there for this?”

“Yes, and I'll be back as soon as you find that file.”

“Here's my card.”

I looked at it. Sergeant John M. Brooks. “I'm Christine Bennett. Can I call you at nine?”

“I'm on ten to six tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I stood and offered my hand. “An awful lot,” I added as we shook.

I drove back to Ocean Avenue and had the kind of luck New Yorkers always hope for. As I coasted down the street, my eyes peeled for a parking space, someone pulled out and I had one. It was still too early to eat lunch, and my sandwich and can of soda were safely cold in Aunt Meg's plastic picnic box packed with a bag of ice. I left it in the car and found the Talleys' apartment house.

I must admit to a certain feeling of discomfort at the thought of ringing bells and knocking on the doors of strangers. Part of that was, I think, an ordinary fear of being considered a little weird. Most people alive today weren't born forty years ago, and I would probably encounter more people—many more—who didn't remember the Talley murder than would. But the other part of my reticence was, I'm sure, a product of the way I'd lived for the second half of my life, all my adult life until three weeks ago.

I hadn't been cloistered as Mrs. McAlpin had assumed. In many ways I was an ordinary teacher of English literature in a college for women. I met the parents of my students and spent lovely hours walking, talking, and dining with the girls I taught. I knew what problems they had, because they confided in me. But at this moment I felt sorely deficient in what they call interpersonal relationships. Talking to strangers was not, as my students would have said, my bag.

But there was no other way. I entered the small foyer of the Talleys' building and looked around. There was a bank of mailboxes on the left wall, and another bank on the right. In front of me was a pair of double doors made of glass panes, heavy wood, and fairly shiny brass. But the door was locked.

The only way to enter was with a key or by being buzzed
in by a tenant. I didn't know any of the tenants, and I was not about to ring bells and hope someone would push a buzzer. Maybe some other time, but not today.

I went back out into the sunshine. Across the street were three private houses wedged between two large apartment buildings. The houses seemed much less threatening, and I crossed the street and went to the nearest one.

A child answered my ring and called her mother, who quickly informed me that they had lived there for only seven years, and the tenants upstairs for two. But, she added helpfully, there was a very old man next door who had lived there a long time.

I thanked her, went down the stone steps and up those of the adjoining house. These houses were so close together that there wasn't room between them to park a car, although one of them had what looked like a narrow driveway. It had probably been built in the days when cars were a lot smaller than they are today.

All three houses had tiny front lawns, but this house had rather elaborate plantings as well and a Japanese red maple in the center of the lawn. Someone obviously cared and put time into gardening.

My ring was answered by a middle-aged woman in a housedress. She looked at me with that mixture of curiosity and apprehension that I was to find frequently in New Yorkers who encounter strangers.

“Good morning,” I said. “My name is Christine Bennett and I'm looking into something that happened in this area in 1950. I know that's a long time ago, but I wonder if you or anyone in your house might remember and be able to help me.”

She sized me up for a long moment. “You mean the murder?” she asked.

I felt a surge of hope. “The Talley murder, yes.”

“I was very young at the time,” she said, and I knew she didn't want to tell me how old or I might figure out her age. “My father would remember it better than I would.”

“I would be so grateful if you would let me talk to him, and to you, too, if you wouldn't mind.”

She thought about it. “Who did you say you were?”

“Christine Bennett. I can show you some identification.” I took my wallet out of my bag and pulled out my driver's license, glancing at it as I did so. I stopped, holding it in midair. The picture showed a smiling nun.

Before I could withdraw it, the woman had taken it from my hand. “Oh, you're a nun. Come in, Sister.”

I had a quick attack of conscience. The last thing I wanted to do was deceive. “I'm not a nun anymore,” I admitted, hoping I wasn't destroying my chance to talk to her father. “I've left the convent.”

“I see. Well, come in. I'm Mrs. Cappicola, and my father's name is Antonetti. Wait here and I'll get him.”

She walked off with my license, and I remembered Aunt Meg saying that Italians were such good gardeners. It was a stereotype I thought they might be proud of.

Mrs. Cappicola returned a few minutes later with a small old man with white hair and a white mustache. We said hello and she handed my license back. The three of us sat in the living room.

“You wanna know about the murder?” the old man asked from his easy chair.