The Hour of the Cat (14 page)

“I need just a minute,” Dunne said.

Sparks squinted. Webs of small wrinkles radiated next to his blue eyes. “My patient list is full, I'm afraid. Speak with my secretary, she'll provide you with a referral.” He looked down the street. “Damn,” he said, “I'm going to be late.”

“It's about the murder of Miss Lynch.”

“You're a reporter, aren't you? I should have realized such a visit was inevitable given the pending execution of Mr. Gonzalez.” Sparks let the racket drop to his side. “I'm a doctor, not a ghoulish commentator on other men's crimes, so you'll forgive me, I trust, if I make no comment whatsoever.” He wasn't the professional physician type that the guard dog of a secretary led Dunne to expect, eyes encircled by steel frames and thick lenses, as though he were examining you through the lens of a microscope, same bland expression they hand out in medical school for telling you your mother just died or to see the nurse about the bill.

“Grillo. Walter Grillo, that's the name of the guy they convicted, and I'm not a reporter. I'm a private investigator.”

“Whoever you are, you've heard all I have to say on the matter.” He turned to the doorman. “Johnny, do you know what's keeping Bill?” The words were barely out of his mouth when a big handsome Buick pulled around the corner. “At last,” he said.

“I just want to go over Miss Lynch's movements the day of the murder.”

“I barely knew her. She worked for me for a few weeks while my regular nurse was away. What happened to her was despicable. But I told everything I know to the police and repeated it at the trial.” The racket moved back and forth, rhythmically. “There's nothing to add.”

“I'm checking facts for the insurance company that has to pay on Miss Lynch's policy. Routine stuff.” He handed his card to Sparks, who studied it intently.

“This says ‘Matrimonial and Divorce,' Mr. Dunne. You seem somewhat afield.”

“These days I grab whatever it takes to stay afloat.”

The Buick pulled up in front of Sparks. “I wish you luck.” His handshake was prep-school firm; his smile, softer. Maybe close to snide.

Broad-shouldered with an outsized jaw, the chauffeur came around the front of the car, opened the rear door with one hand, put the other on Dunne's chest, and gave a sudden shove. “Beat it,” he said.

Caught off balance, Dunne stumbled backwards. He grabbed one of the metal poles that supported the canopy and steadied himself.

Bill closed the car door behind Sparks and walked back to the driver's side. The spread of his shoulders was accented by the double rows of buttons on his black tunic. Unfastening the top buttons, he stood with his hands on hips.

Sparks leaned through the window. “I apologize, Mr. Dunne. Bill's a bit over protective. Happy hunting.” He rolled the window up. Bill climbed into the driver's seat. Dunne came around and stood next to him. “Sorry, I didn't realize you knew the Doctor,” Bill said. “I thought you were a pan handler or an organ grinder.”

“If I was an organ grinder,” Dunne said, “I'd use you for the monkey.”

“Stand back, unless you want to start a pushing contest with this car.” Bill leaned forward and shifted into first. The flap of his tunic fell open. The butt of a pistol, cradled beneath his armpit, poked through.

“I should've warned you,” the doorman said. “Bill's got a tiny fuse.”

“And a brain to match. I'm half-tempted to stick around and continue our conversation when he gets back.”

“Please, buddy, have it somewhere other than here. Any trouble like that and I'll be lookin' for another job.”

“Better tell Bill that.”

“I already did.”

 

 

At the head of the car, the conductor yelled, “Next stop, Sing Sing!” The train arrived on time. The spring morning, ripe with summer, had spoiled into a humid, sunless afternoon. The walls of the prison blended into a sky the color of wet concrete. The machine guns in the turrets pointed east and west, as though to stop civilians from breaking in as well as convicts from breaking out. A guard led Dunne through a series of bare rooms, each with a metal gate. They stopped in a closet-sized cubicle, where Dunne was frisked and the contents of his pockets examined. A small black truck took them a short distance to a squat unmarked building. The acrid smell of burnt rubber hung in the air. Maybe it was from the truck's brakes; or maybe it was a permanent part of the place.

Although Dunne had expected it might take a while before he was allowed to see Walter Grillo, the prison official on the phone said he could come up that afternoon. As long as his name was on the appointment list and Grillo didn't object, he'd be admitted. Padding ahead on felt-soled shoes, the guard led the way through another series of hallways, checkpoints, and steel doors, until they reached a door marked VISITOR CENTER. There was a set of rules posted on the door, but the guard opened it before Dunne could read them. He directed Dunne to sit at a large oak table on the side opposite the door. A single light hung over it. The room was cool and quiet as a morgue. “Be a few minutes,” the guard said.

Two guards escorted Walter Grillo. Taller than Dunne imagined, older too, with hair that shaded from ash gray to white, he wore a capacious white shirt, with embroidery on the front, that obviously wasn't standard prison garb. It hung off him like a shroud. The guards bookended Grillo as he sat in a chair across from Dunne. “Got fifteen minutes,” one of them said. Grillo nodded. The concave creases in his cheeks made his nose as prominent as a beak. “You know me, Joe, I never go over.”

The guards retreated just outside the open door. Grillo slumped in the chair, head down, hands in his lap. Dunne sensed the relaxed attitude of the guards had less to do with pity for a condemned man than with Grillo's obvious passivity.

“I'm Fintan Dunne, a private investigator.”

“I know. Elba called. She thinks you're Jesus Christ come to save me.” Grillo removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, lit one, and tossed the pack on the table. “Funny, you don't look like Jesus Christ.”

“I don't walk on water. But maybe I can save your life.”

“Forget about this. That way you'll save your time and Elba's money.” Grillo blew a stream of smoke toward the light over the table. “The State of New York has promised to put me to death. A great state like this won't go back on its word.”

“We produce the right evidence it will.”

“This isn't about evidence. It's about politics. There's an election for governor in the first week of November. I'm scheduled to die on September twenty-first. Both the governor and his challenger will want to make sure I keep my date with the executioner.”

“Your sister is convinced you're innocent. Let's say you play along, tell me what you know, and I'll find out whatever I can. What's the harm?”

Grillo stared up at the light and the trail of smoke that crossed it. “I have accomplished two things in prison, Mr. Dunne. When I came here my English was inferior. I knew enough to get by, but it always struck me as a crude, clumsy tongue. I didn't bother mastering it. Now I've come to enjoy and savor it. Also, I've made my peace with God. I never was a religious man. I'm still not what you'd call devout, but today I know that I'm a believer, which I'd never given much thought to before. I'm at peace. I've confessed my sins to a priest.”

“In English or Spanish?”

“Pardon?”

“Did you confess in English or Spanish?”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not. Rape and murder are rape and murder in any language.”

Grillo sat up. He had the same brown eyes as Elba, alight with the same indignation. “I confessed my sins, not the lies told by the police and repeated by the prosecutor.”

“Which lies?”

“All of them.”

“Name one.”

“Ah, bravo, Mr. Dunne. You know how to prod a witness.” Grillo sank back in the chair. “You would make a good lawyer.”

“Where were you the night of the murder?”

“In the park, walking.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Neither did the jury.”

“There's nothing you can tell me about what happened that night? Give me something to go on, I promise I'll do what I can to get you out of here.”

“What it takes to get me out of here is down the hall, in the chamber that holds the electric chair. That's how I'm destined to leave. It's the wish of New York State. And God's will.” Grillo stood. “Joe,” he called out. “I'm ready.”

The guards re-entered. They flanked Grillo in an informal, familiar way.

“And Roberta Dee, what can you tell me about her?”

If the name meant anything to Grillo, he gave no sign. He shrugged and picked up his cigarettes. “Goodbye, Mr. Dunne. Give my love to Elba.” The guards walked out behind him. A gate shut with the uncompromising finality of steel against steel.

Donovan was late for lunch. The receptionist advised that Mr. Dulles was also running late but Mr. Dewey was already in the dining room. She buzzed and a formally attired attendant came to the front desk. He led Donovan down the heavily carpeted hallways. Except for occasional echoes of smothered shouting from behind heavy oak doors, a churchlike quiet prevailed. The pain had returned to his knee during his walk up Wall Street and was throbbing once more. He limped slightly entering the dining room.

District Attorney Dewey studied the smoldering tip of his cigarette. He stood when Donovan came in. “Bill,” he said. “Glad you could make it.” Neither his enthusiastic handshake nor smile disguised the slow burn he'd been doing at being kept waiting. Two colored waiters in starched and spotless white jackets appeared and served them each a chilled glass of tomato juice. The chief attendant stayed in the corner until they'd been served. “Mr. Dulles apologizes for the delay,” he said. “He's on an international call and will be with you shortly.”

“He was on the same call ten minutes ago.” Dewey rubbed out his cigarette in the saucer beneath the tomato juice. “I wish I'd been told ahead of time. I rushed through a review of one of our capital cases to get here. Thank God it was an open-and-shut case, the perpetrator caught red-handed. He's set to be executed the twenty-first of September.”

The phone on the sideboard rang softly. The attendant picked it up on the first ring, hung up without saying a word, and hurried to the door. John Foster Dulles entered a moment later, moving deliberately, like a prelate in a liturgical procession. He nodded toward Dewey and Donovan. He laid his hand on Dewey's shoulder as he walked past to the far end of the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said as he passed, “please accept my apologies for the delay. It was unavoidable.” The attendant stood ready to pull out Dulles's chair but was waved away. Dulles stayed erect, holding the knobbed spires on the back of the chair, arms stiff, neck arched, face upturned.

“Are you in pain, Foster?” Dewey asked.

“My back. It will pass. These things always do.” Dulles reached behind and stuck his thumbs into the base of his spine. “I'm particularly grateful to you, Bill, for accepting this change in venue and making the necessary alterations in your schedule.”

“I should thank you. You saved me a cab ride uptown.”

Dulles bowed his head, as if about to pronounce a blessing on their meal. “I didn't want to postpone this meeting because I believe there's a growing urgency to events.” While he spoke, the waiters glided noiselessly around the room and served a lunch of chicken in cream sauce, salad, and ice tea.

“Please, gentlemen, go on with your meal.” Dulles could have been addressing an audience or congregation of two hundred instead of two. “The bankruptcy of the current administration in Washington is self-evident. Having failed to return prosperity to the United States, with nine million people still out of work, it hopes to turn to foreign adventures to cover its domestic sins. It's among the oldest ploys of demagogues, and few demagogues in history have been as utterly unscrupulous as the present occupant of the White House.”

“Or as tolerant of corruption,” Dewey interjected.

“Exactly, Tom. The New Deal has brought a new stench to the open sewers of corruption that disgrace so many of our cities.”

“But we're closing those sewers down here in New York, cleaning them up, showing the whole damn country how.” Dewey thumped the table for emphasis.

Dulles's contented smile was the kind a preacher might bestow on his brightest Sunday school pupil. “It is precisely such vigorous prosecution of wrongdoing that has led to Tom Dewey being the choice of an ever-growing number of Republicans for the upcoming presidential nomination.”

“Have you seen the movie
Racket Buster
?” Dewey said. “I'm told it's a hit.”

“I thought George Brent was miscast,” Donovan said.

“Yes, yes, all well and good.” Dulles was visibly displeased with the turn of the conversation. “But not really relevant to our discussion. As my grandfather John Foster was fond of saying, ‘Fame is ephemeral. It's a man's character that endures.' Though grandfather never sought the presidency himself, his service as Secretary of State left him well-schooled in the requirements of national leadership.”

“We're getting ahead of ourselves, don't you think,” Donovan said.

“You're absolutely right, Bill.” Dulles put his hands together, in a small, silent mimic of applause. “That's why I felt this meeting was so urgent. While Tom's success as a prosecutor has brought him national attention, he needs a higher platform from which to seek the presidency, an executive position, such as governor, in which his sterling leadership qualities will be fully displayed. But he'll need a good deal of guidance in putting together a proper campaign that can unseat the incumbent.”