Which Way to Die? (11 page)

“The Air Force has been experimenting with this thing for some time, sir. They've put on demonstrations at air shows all over the country. It's a one-man rocket belt that allows a man to jump the length of a football field, or even over buildings. I've seen it on TV a couple of times.”

Corrigan glanced over at the apartment building across the street. The distance from rooftop to rooftop was about three hundred feet. The length of a football field.

So that's how it was done, he thought. The killer had actually flown over and back!

“We won't move this till the lab crew has a chance to look at it. You stay here and guard it, Kent I'm going back across the street.”

“Yes, sir,” Kent said.

Maybe Chuck and I were lucky they didn't let us arrange the security, Corrigan thought as he left. Who'd figure a stunt like this? He felt his spine crawl. It took real dedication for a man to launch himself into empty space with nothing but some tanks and a nozzle, or however the thing worked. Real dedication.

Only revenge explained it.

13.

Corrigan found the penthouse crowded. Sergeant Hooker had stationed himself in the foyer to let people in and out. In the living room Norma was serving coffee and sandwiches to the Grants, Andy Betz, and her father. And Baer stood gabbing with Sergeant Dave Bender and his partner, Marty Kinn, of Homicide.

The burly Bender greeted Corrigan in his usual dour manner, lanky Kinn with his usual friendly grin. “You sure give us doozies, Tim,” Kinn said. “But I've got it solved. The killer was Captain Nice.”

Bender frowned at Kinn's levity. “Chuck's given us the rundown, Tim,” Bender said. “What was that contraption across the street?”

“The killer got in and out of here,” Corrigan said, “with a Buck Rogers belt.”

Everyone looked at him. Bender said curtly, “Cut the comedy.”

“I'm serious, Dave. It's a device the Air Force has been experimenting with. The killer jumped three hundred feet from the roof across the way, then escaped by the same route. I left a cop guarding the thing.”

Young Grant, still clutching his snifter, had been listening with an avid air. He ran over, slopping the brandy.

“Of course!” he said excitedly. “The Bell Rocket Belt! I've seen pictures of it. I would have recognized it if the room hadn't been so dark.”

Bender said incredulously, “You mean that thing that lets soldiers jump over streams and trees? The thing they demonstrated at the air show in Jersey a while back?” He shook his head. “I've been in this racket a long time, but this one is for the books.”

Marty Kinn snorted. “Now I've heard everything. Killers flying through the air like Superman! The job isn't tough enough.”

John Alstrom said heavily, “When Can I see my son, Sergeant?” He did not seem interested in the discussion.

“When the medical examiner is through, sir. It won't be long.” Bender turned back to his partner. “Let's see how the lab boys are doing.”

Corrigan and Baer followed them.

In the hall they ran into a young doctor from the medical examiner's staff. He had just emerged from the murder room.

“Anything special, Doc?” Bender said.

“Nothing earth-shaking. He must have died practically instantly—the puncture is dead center in his heart and he didn't bleed much; it would have gushed out if his heart had kept pumping after he was stabbed, but there was just moderate seepage. You'll get a detailed report after the autopsy.”

“That knife lying on the floor the murder weapon?”

“I don't think there's much question about it. But we'll tell you definitely after the p.m.”

He moved on. Bender called after him, “On your way out, Doc, would you tell the boy's father he can take a look now?”

The four men crossed the bedroom, heading for the roof. The M.E. had pulled a sheet over the face of the corpse. Outside, three men in civilian clothes were at the wall overlooking the street. Only one was working, Mauthe of the police lab. He was just lifting moulage impressions of the two large footprints in the flower bed. The other two, Powers of Fingerprinting and a civilian photographer Corrigan had seen before but whose name he didn't recall, were standing near Mauthe, watching.

“You get everything you need?” Bender said to the man with the camera.

“I took shots of the body, the broken lock, the footprints, and the palm print. You want anything else?”

“That ought to cover it.” Bender turned to the fingerprint man. “How about you?”

“That palm print is too smeared to show any ridges or whorls,” Powers said. “No prints on the knife. I did lift a couple from the French door, though. I'll have to print the other occupants of the house to see if they're theirs.”

“Well, go do it,” Bender said.

Powers looked at Baer. “You're one of the occupants, aren't you?”

Corrigan said, “Neither of us touched the door. Anyway, our prints are both on file downtown. You can pull them there.”

The fingerprint man picked up his kit and camera from where they lay on the lawn and went into the house.

Mauthe was packing his gear. Bender said, “Anything interesting?”

“Largely negative,” the lab tech said. “The knife looks like a homemade job from a cheap stainless steel steak-type knife. We'll probably be able to pinpoint the company that manufactured it, but I'd guess it's a common brand turned out by the tens of thousands. The tape wound around the handle is common friction tape sold everywhere. I'd say your chance of tracing it is about the same as Chuck here making number one on the ten best-dressed men list.”

“Thank
you
, Beau Brummel,” the redhead said. “Classic case of the pot calling the pot a pot.”

“I'm in a clutch of comedians,” Dave Bender growled. “How about those footprints?”

“Size twelve-and-a-half-D shoe—not too common. Look for a real big guy. Also for a Goodyear rubber heel with a gouged-out place in the right heel.”

He probed in the paper sack, brought out one of the moulage impressions, and pointed to the heel.

Chuck Baer said in a funny way, “Twelve-and-a-half-D. Know who wears a size like that?” and answered himself. “At the start of the football season they always list physical measurements on the sports page for every member of the Cougars. I'm a Barber fan and I know his by heart. Harry Barber wears twelve-and-a-half-D.”

After a moment Marty Kinn said, “He was an infantryman in Vietnam, too. Did they use those rocket belts there?”

No one knew. Corrigan said, “I think it's the Air Force experimenting with the thing, anyway, not the infantry.”

“Maybe we'd better see what kind of alibi Barber has for tonight,” Bender said. “Marty, phone in a pickup on him.”

Corrigan said, “And you'd better check out Martello's top hatchet boys while you're at it.”

“Yeah,” Bender said. “That would be his bodyguard, Little Jumbo, and his wheel man, Benny Grubb, for openers. Anyone else, Tim?”

“The Acid Kid. Martello's likelier to use him for a hit than the other two.”

“Have the three of them pulled in,” Bender said to Kinn. “We may as well make a clean sweep. Pull Martello in, too.”

The lanky Homicide man grinned. “He'll love that at this time of night.”

“The hell with him,” Bender said. Kinn went off, and Bender said to Mauthe, “There's a gadget across the street I want you to look at, Mauthe. It'll have to be checked for prints, too, so we'll wait till Powers is through.”

The lab man said, “I've got all night.”

It was 2:30
A
.
M
. before the investigation at the penthouse was completed. In the meantime Gerard Alstrom's body had been packed off to the City Morgue, and his father and Betz had returned to the eleventh-floor apartment.

Since the killer had abandoned his rocket belt, it seemed unlikely that he would make an attempt to return for Frank Grant. But neither Baer nor Corrigan was in a mood to take chances. The private detective had Frank's bed moved into his room. Corrigan stationed Sergeant Hooker and young Kent on the roof and arranged for two other officers to relieve them when their tour was over.

“Probably unnecessary,” he said to Baer. “The guy can't be lousy with those rocket belts. But just in case he has another one. We'd look like bigger damn fools than we already do, Chuck, if he came back and killed Frank under our noses.”

Baer nodded. “Why do you suppose he abandoned the belt on that roof over there?”

Corrigan shrugged. “Couldn't very well wear it on the street, and it's too conspicuous to lug around. Also, it served its purpose at least as far as the Alstrom kid was concerned. This joker knows we'll be on the alert against a return visit by air. He'll have to figure on getting Frank some other time, some other place.”

As a murder, the crime was the responsibility of Homicide Division, but Corrigan felt a vested interest in the case. He was especially keen on learning if Marty Martello was behind the Alstrom murder after Corrigan warned him off. He therefore followed Bender's and Kinn's car back to Homicide.

It was 3:00
A
.
M
. when they got there. They found Martello and his three soldiers under guard in the Homicide squadroom. The racketeer looked impeccable; only his usually clean-shaven jaw, now dark with three o'clock shadow, betrayed the haste with which he had dressed.

The four were seated at one of the long tables under the watchful eyes of two uniformed men. When Bender, Kinn, and Corrigan walked in, Martello's liquid eyes shimmered at the MOS man. Little Jumbo Barth and Benny Grubb both looked at him with hatred; the memory of their last meeting evidently still rankled. The dead eyes of the Acid Kid regarded him without expression.

“Is this on your order, Captain?” Martello squeaked.

“I'm just an interested bystander,” Corrigan said. “Sergeant Bender is in charge of the case.”

Martello turned his attention to the burly Homicide officer. “What case? I haven't done nothing.”

Bender leaned on the table; his hard face was inches from Martello's. “We're operating under a new set of rules around here, Marty. You already know your goddamn rights better than any lawyer, but I'm required to explain them to you anyway. You and your three punks are not required to answer any questions, and if you do your answers may be used against you. You're all entitled to counsel, and if you can't afford it, the State will furnish each of you a lawyer free.”

Benny Grubb snickered. He looked away when Bender glared at him.

“I think we can afford our own counsel,” Martello said, relaxing. “In fact, I phoned Max Besser before I left home. But we got nothing to hide, Sergeant. Me and the boys is always willing to cooperate with the law. What's your beef?”

Bender straightened up. “Tell me where you all were about two hours ago.”

“I was home in bed,” Martello said. “With my wife. We hit the sack about midnight. Before that we entertained guests.”

“What guests?”

“Benny and Al and their girl friends.” Martello waved at Grubb and the Acid Kid. “They left the house around a quarter of twelve.” He nodded toward Little Jumbo. “Leroy was there, too. He lives with me.”

Kinn said wearily, “Cozy. You alibi each other.”

“There are substantiating witnesses,” Martello said calmly. “My wife, and Benny's and Al's girls!”

Bender looked at Grubb. “All right, Benny. Who's your girl?”

“Rose O'Donlan,” Benny Grubb said promptly. “She lives over in Brooklyn with Al's girl, Frieda. Al and I drove the chicks home—we had my car—then I dropped Al off at his place, and I got home around two
A
.
M
. I'd just checked in when the fuzz called.”

Bender looked at the Acid Kid. “Frieda what?”

“Frieda Kimmer. Apartment 203, Sterling Apartments, Sterling Place.” He had a voice like a robot.

Marty Kinn jotted down the information in a notebook; his expression suggested that it was a waste of the taxpayer's money. As it was. If the alibis were rigged, the girls would have been closely briefed on what to say; no amount of police questioning was likely to change their stories.

Martello and his Family had unbreakable alibis for every occasion.

14.

Corrigan had been studying the suspects as Bender questioned them. He automatically dismissed Marty Martello as the killer; Martello never made his own hits. Generals did not man the artillery.

None of the others fitted Frank Grant's description of the killer. He had described the man as over six feet and broad.

Little Jumbo was broad enough, but he was as squat as a gorilla. Benny Grubb was tall enough, but he was pencil-thin. With one reservation: The fiberglass rocket belt could have made him look broader. Wiry Al (the Acid Kid) Jennings was neither tall enough nor broad enough to fit in either category.

There was no guarantee, of course, that Frank's description was accurate. He had got a mere glimpse of the man in a dark room. And it was Corrigan's experience that frightened witnesses tended to exaggerate the size of criminals.

Still, the twelve-and-a-half-D shoeprints indicated a large man. Even then, the killer could have deliberately worn oversized shoes to leave a false clue.

Corrigan said to Little Jumbo, “What size shoe do you wear?”

The ex-wrestler glowered at Corrigan.

“Want another knot on your jaw?” Corrigan asked sociably.

Martello said in an irritated voice, “Tell him, Leroy. I said we was cooperating.”

“Eleven-C.”

Corrigan looked at Grubb. “What size do you wear?”

“Nine-and-a-half-B,” Martello's chauffeur said grudgingly.

Corrigan looked at the Acid Kid.