“Nobody’s cleaned in here yet,” Carl said as he followed Laurie through the door. Laurie noticed a musty, almost fishy smell as she entered the apartment.
Laurie surveyed the living room. An antique butler’s-style coffee table with only three legs lay at an odd angle. The fourth leg was on the floor just by it. Magazines and books were haphazardly scattered across the carpet; it looked as if they had been spilled when the leg was broken. A crystal lamp lay smashed between an end table and the couch. A large, old-master oil painting hung askew on the wall.
“A lot of damage,” Laurie said. In her mind’s eye she tried to imagine the kind of seizure that could have resulted in such breakage.
“That’s just the way it looked when I came in here last night,” Carl said.
Laurie started toward the kitchen. “Who found the bodies?” she said.
“I did,” Carl said.
Laurie was surprised. “What brought you in?”
“The night doorman called me,” Carl said.
Laurie was going to ask about him next. She hoped to speak to him, too, and said so. “Why did he call you?” she asked.
“He said another tenant had called him to report strange noises coming from 10F. The caller was worried that someone was hurt.”
“What did you do?” Laurie asked.
“I came up here and rang the bell,” Carl said. “I rang it several times. Then I used my passkey. That’s when I found the bodies.”
Laurie blinked. Her mind was mulling over this scenario, and something wasn’t making sense. She could remember reading an hour earlier in the investigator’s report that both bodies had significant rigor mortis, even the woman in the bedroom. That meant that they had to have been dead at least several hours.
“You said the tenant called down to the doorman because sounds were coming out of the apartment at that time? I mean at the same time he was calling.”
“I think so,” Carl said.
Laurie began to wonder how the other victims in her series had been found. Duncan Andrews and Julia Myerholtz had been found by their lovers. But what about the others? Laurie had never considered the question before now. Now that she thought about it, she did recognize one strange thing: all the victims had been found relatively quickly. Their bodies were discovered in a matter of hours whereas in many cases single people who unexpectedly died in their apartments weren’t found for days, sometimes only after the smell of decay had alerted neighbors.
The scene in the kitchen was all too familiar. The contents of the refrigerator had been strewn helter-skelter across the floor. The refrigerator door was still ajar. Laurie noticed that the smell of spoiled milk and rotting vegetables permeated the air.
“Someone is going to have to clean this up,” Carl said.
Laurie nodded. Leaving the kitchen, she looked into the bedroom. Again she started to feel incredibly sad. Seeing the apartment where these people had lived made them all the more real. It was easier to remain dispassionate down at the medical examiner’s office than it was in the deceased’s home. Laurie felt her eyes well with tears.
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Carl asked.
“I’d like to speak to that night doorman,” she said, pulling herself together.
“That’s easily arranged,” Carl said. “Anything else?”
“Yes,” Laurie said, gazing around the apartment. “Maybe you shouldn’t let anyone clean this place up just yet. Let me talk to the police.”
“They were here last night too,” Carl said.
“I know,” Laurie said. “But I’m thinking of someone a little higher on the ladder in the homicide department.”
Downstairs Carl got the night doorman’s phone number for Laurie. The man’s name was Scott Maybrie. He even offered to allow Laurie the use of his phone if she wanted to call immediately.
“Wouldn’t he be asleep at this time?” Laurie asked.
“It won’t hurt him,” Carl insisted.
Carl’s tiny apartment was on the first floor and faced the street, in contrast to VanDeusen’s, which had faced out over the East River. Carl allowed Laurie to sit at his cluttered desk amid notes to plumbers and electricians. Being particularly helpful, Carl even dialed Scott’s number and handed Laurie the phone. As she’d feared, the man’s voice was hoarse with sleep when he answered.
Laurie identified herself and explained that Carl had suggested she call. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about the VanDeusen case,” she continued. “Did you see Mr.
VanDeusen or his girlfriend last night?”
“No, I didn’t,” Scott said.
“Carl told me that one of the other tenants called you about noises coming from the VanDeusen apartment. What time was that?”
“Around two-thirty, three o’clock,” Scott said.
“Which tenant called?” Laurie asked.
“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “He didn’t say.”
“Was it one of the immediate neighbors?” Laurie suggested.
“I really don’t know. I didn’t recognize the voice, but that’s not unusual.”
“What did he say exactly?” Laurie asked.
“He said there were strange noises coming from 10F,” Scott said. “He was concerned someone might be hurt.”
“Did he say they were occurring at the moment he was calling?” Laurie asked. “Or did he say they had happened sometime in the past.”
“I think he said they were happening right then,” Scott said.
“Did you notice two men leaving the building during the night?” Laurie asked. “Two men you’d never seen before?”
“That I couldn’t say,” Scott said. “People come and go all night. To be honest, I don’t pay much attention to people leaving. It’s the ones who are arriving I’m most concerned about.”
Laurie thanked Scott and apologized for disturbing him. Then, turning to Carl, she asked if she could speak to the doorman who’d been on duty earlier in the evening.
“Absolutely,” Carl said. “That would have been Clark Davenport.” Again Carl dialed the number, then handed Laurie the phone.
Laurie went through the same explanation when Clark picked up.
“Did you see Mr. George VanDeusen come into his apartment last night?” Laurie asked after the introductions.
“Yes,” Clark said. “He came in around ten with his girlfriend.”
“Was he behaving normally?” Laurie asked.
“Normal for a Saturday night,” Clark said. “He was a little tipsy. His girlfriend had to give him a little support. But they seemed to be having a good time, if that’s what you mean.”
“Were they alone?” Laurie asked.
“Yup,” Clark said. “Their guests didn’t come in for about half an hour.”
“They had a party?” Laurie asked with surprise.
“I wouldn’t call it a party,” Clark said. “Just two men. A tall guy and a shorter one.”
“Can you remember what these men looked like?” Laurie asked.
Clark had to think about it. “The tall one had bad skin, like he’d had acne as a kid.”
“Did they give their names?” Laurie asked. She could feel her pulse quicken.
“Yeah, of course they gave their names,” Clark said. “How else was I to call up and ask Mr. VanDeusen if they were expected? Otherwise I wouldn’t have let them in.”
“What were the names?” Laurie asked. She’d taken out a pen and a piece of paper.
“I don’t remember,” Clark said. “On a Saturday night I have a hundred people coming in.”
Laurie was disappointed to be so tantalizingly close to a real breakthrough. Although she wasn’t able to get the names, this was progress. Yet again two men were spotted at the scene of the OD shortly before the deaths occurred.
“Did you see these men come out again?” Laurie asked.
“Nope,” Clark said. “Of course, I went off duty not too long after they arrived.”
Laurie
thanked Clark before hanging up. She also thanked Carl profusely for all his help before she left the building.
Even though it was ugly and quite cold, Laurie decided to huddle under her umbrella and walk for a bit before catching a cab home. She wanted to mill over what she had learned and what it might mean for the case as a whole.
By far the most significant discovery was the surfacing of these two mystery men. Laurie wondered if the pair was involved in the drug trade. She wondered if this revelation would be enough to get the police narcotics squad interested. She began to hope Lou might feel differently now that more similarities between the cases were falling into place.
Laurie wished she could speak to the tenant who complained of noise. What did he hear and when did he hear it? When it began to rain in earnest, Laurie hailed a cab and headed for home. Over a salad and some hot tea, she got out all the material she had concerning her series and made a new sheet listing the cases in order. She started two columns beside the column of names: “Found by”; “Two Men at Scene?”
She filled in what answers she had. The rest of the afternoon she devoted to filling in the blanks. It meant a lot of legwork, but Laurie knew she had to be thorough if she was ever going to get anyone to believe in her theory.
By late afternoon, Laurie was convinced her efforts had been worthwhile. In each of the scenes the bodies had been discovered by a doorman or superintendent investigating after a neighboring tenant’s complaint of strange noises coming from the deceased’s apartment. With the information on her sheet nearly complete, Laurie headed home convinced more than ever that there was something sinister afoot. There were too many coincidences. Now if only she could persuade someone in a position to do something about it.
By the time she got home, it was dark. She wasn’t sure what her next move should be. Out of curiosity, Laurie opened the Sunday Times to see if the media had picked up the story of the banker and the Columbia coed who’d OD’d. She found a brief mention of the deaths in the depths of the second section. The article made the deaths sound like just another couple of overdoses and made no mention of other demographically similar occurrences in the recent past. Another day, another opportunity to alert the public lost.
Laurie decided to try Lou’s home number. She wasn’t sure she had enough to convince him of anything, but she was eager to give him an update. She got Lou’s answering machine but decided against leaving a message.
Hanging up the phone, Laurie pondered the thought of calling Bingham. Believing it would be an exercise in futility at best, and might get her fired at worst, she gave up the idea. He clearly stated that he intended to do nothing, at least not until he spoke with the commissioner of health.
Laurie’s eyes moved from the phone to the open newspaper. Slowly the idea of leaking the story herself began to occur to her. She’d had a bad experience with giving her opinion to Bob Talbot the last time, but in all fairness to him, she’d not specifically said her remarks were confidential.
With that thought in mind, she got out her address book to see if she had his number. She did, and she gave him a call.
“Well, well,” he said when he heard it was Laurie. “I was afraid I was never going to hear from you again. I didn’t know what else to do beyond apologizing.”
“I overreacted,” Laurie admitted. “I’m sorry I never got back to you. It was just that I got an awful chewing out by the chief over your story.”
“I apologize again,” Bob said. “What’s up?”
“This might surprise you,” Laurie said, “but I may have a story for you, a big story.”
“I’m all ears,” Bob said.
“I don’t want to talk on the phone,” Laurie said.
“Fine by me,” Bob said. “How about I buy you dinner?”
“You’re on,” Laurie said.
They met at P. J. Clark’s on the corner of Fifty-fifth and Third. They were lucky to get a table on a rainy Sunday evening, especially one by the far wall where they could talk above the usual hubbub. After a clear-eyed Irish waiter took their order and slid two brimming draughts in front of them, Laurie began.
“First, I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing talking to you. But I’m desperate. I feel I have to do something.”
Bob nodded.
“I want you to promise me you will not use my name.”
“Scout’s honor,” Bob said, holding up two fingers. Then he took out a note pad and a pencil.
“I don’t know where to begin,” Laurie said. She was hesitant at first, but once she began explaining recent events, she warmed up a bit. She began with Duncan Andrews and her first suspicions and took him through to the double death of George VanDeusen and Carol Palmer. She emphasized that all the victims were single, educated, successful people with no hint of drug use or illegal activity in their pasts. She also mentioned the pressure brought to bear on the medical examiner to keep a lid on the Duncan Andrews case in particular.
“In a way it’s too bad he was the first. I think part of the reason Bingham keeps rejecting my series theory is because the series began with him.”
“This is unbelievable,” Bob said when Laurie had to pause with the arrival of their food. “I haven’t seen anything about this in the media at all. Nothing. Zip.”
“There was a mention of the double death in this morning’s Times,” Laurie said. “But it was in the second section. It got barely a squib. But you’re right, there’s been no mention of the other cases.”
“What a scoop,” Bob marveled. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll have to move on it if I’m going to make tomorrow morning’s paper.”
“But there’s more,” Laurie said. She went on to tell him that the cocaine involved was coming from one source, was probably contaminated with a trace of a very lethal compound on top of being extremely potent, and was probably being distributed by a single pusher who somehow came in contact with upscale young people.
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” Laurie corrected herself. “It might be two people. On most of the cases that I’ve investigated, two men have been seen going into the victim’s apartment.”
“I wonder why two?” Bob asked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Laurie admitted. “There are a lot of mysteries about this whole affair.”
“Is that it?” Bob questioned. He was eager to leave. He hadn’t even touched his food.
“No, that’s not all,” Laurie said. “I’ve begun to get the feeling that these deaths are not accidental, that they are deliberate. In other words they are homicides.”
“This keeps getting better and better,” Bob said.
“All of the bodies were found shortly after death,” Laurie said. “That in itself is unusual. Single people who die alone are usually not found for days. In all the cases I’ve investigated, a phone call led to the discovery of the body. In two cases the victims called their significant other beforehand. In all the others, an anonymous tenant in the victim’s building called the doorman to complain about strange sounds emanating from the victim’s apartment. But here’s the catch: based on medical evidence, these complaints about noise came several hours after the time of death.”
“My God!” Bob said. He looked up at Laurie. “What about the police?” he asked. “Why haven’t they gotten involved in all this?”
“Nobody buys my series theory. The police aren’t the least suspicious. They consider these cases to be simple drug overdoses.”
“And what about Dr. Harold Bingham? What has he done?”
“Nothing so far,” Laurie said. “My guess is he wants to steer clear of such a potential hot potato. Duncan Andrews’ father’s running for office; his people have really been leaning on the mayor, who’s been leaning on Bingham. He did say he’d talk to the commissioner of health about it.”
“If these are homicides, then we’re talking about some new kind of serial killer,” Bob said. “This is hot stuff!”
“I think it’s important for the public to be
warned. If this can save one life, it’s worth it. That’s why I called you. We’ve got to put the word out about the contaminant in this drug.”
“Is that it then?” Bob asked.
“I think so,” Laurie said. “If I think of anything I forgot to mention, I’ll call you.”
“Great!” Bob said, getting to his feet. “Sorry to run, but if I’m going to get this into tomorrow morning’s paper, I’ve got to go directly to my editor.”
Laurie watched Bob weave through the crowd of people waiting for tables. Looking down at her veal swimming in a pool of oil, she decided she wasn’t hungry herself.
She was about to get up when their Irish waiter reappeared with the bill.
Laurie looked after Bob, but he was long gone. So much for his offer to pick up the tab.
“What time is it?” Angelo asked.
“Seven-thirty,” Tony said, checking the Rolex he’d picked up at the Goldburg place.
They were parked on Fifth Avenue just north of the Seventy-second Street entrance to Central Park’s East Drive. They were on the park side of the avenue but had a good view of the entrance to the apartment house they were interested in.
“Must take this Kendall Fletcher a long time to put on his jogging shorts,” Angelo said.
“He told me he was going jogging,” Tony said defensively. “You should have called him yourself if you weren’t going to believe me.”
“Here comes somebody,” Angelo said. “What do you think? Could that be Kendall Fletcher, banker?”
“He doesn’t look like a banker in that getup,” Tony said. “I don’t understand this jogging stuff. Who’d want to dress up in Peter Pan tights and run around the park at night? It’s like asking to be mugged.”
“I think it’s him,” Angelo said. “Looks like the right age. How old did you say Kendall was?”
Tony took a typed sheet of paper out of the glove compartment. Using the map light, he searched for the Kendall Fletcher entry, then read: “Kendall Fletcher, age thirty-four, Vice President Citicorp.”
“That must be him,” Angelo said. He started the car. Tony put the list back in the glove compartment.