Authors: Eileen Browne
Tags: #Mystery, #thriller, #Suspense, #Murder, #True Crime, #Crime
KILLING TIME (24 page)
Leland McMaster entered the hallway from stage left, parting the heavy oak doors to his study with a flourish, allowing the sunlight to spill from one room to the next.
“Look, doll,” he said in a half shout, “it’s Jimmy, it’s Jimmy come to visit,” he repeated, as if without prompting, Helen might not recognize Cromwell for herself. “Pour us a drink, doll,” he commanded in a hackneyed tone reminiscent of some forties film noir. To Cromwell he said, “You’ll join me, won’t you? Just arrived home myself: bloody busy day at the dealership. Sometimes,” he said, guiding Cromwell firmly by the elbow into the study, directing him to a chair, “I wonder to myself: how much money does one man need?”
Cromwell waited, knowing the question was rhetorical, requiring no answer from him. McMaster moved to a leather sofa opposite, careful to maintain the crease in his slacks as he settled into the chair.
“The answer is simple really,” he said solemnly, “as much as he has the capacity to earn. There are two things that defy the traditional definition of greed, Jimmy,” he continued, as if waiting for his wife to return, which eventually she did, carrying two single malt whiskey over ice. “A man’s need for women, and his quest for wealth. You can never have too much of either. Cheers!” He raised his glass as Helen prepared to settle by her husband.
“Be a doll,” McMaster said before she could. “Close the door behind you on the way out.” Helen paused in a half-squat and as if by remote control, straightened. With a benign smile, she walked silently from the room. As instructed, Helen closed the door behind her on the way out.
Leland was a big man, possibly in his late thirties, perhaps five years either side of forty. Tall, physically fit with a self-confidence vested in good looks, McMaster possessed an easy appeal. To Cromwell, he was, and, despite his affluence, would always be a peddler of used automobiles. Jimmy wouldn’t allow himself to critically underestimate the man, aware that his own prejudice derived more from a sense of intellectual pride than from experience. McMaster influenced with money and intimidation. (Emotional rather than physical, though privately, Jimmy suspected the potential was there.) By contrast, Cromwell used the prospect of favors granted or withheld, secrets revealed or concealed. Until the moment Sid Womack walked into McMaster’s office with the photos of Leland’s rutting son, Cromwell was uncertain which held more leverage.
After five minutes of innocuous chit-chat, during which the two men discussed the Dodgers, the Yankees and the prospects for the upcoming pennant race; a pending application by Leland’s real estate trust, Cloverdale Properties, to rezone a one hundred acre parcel of property belonging to McMaster from farm land to commercial, for the purpose of constructing what the owner described as the county’s first “enclosed shopping mall”; and, the prospect of Cromwell’s re-election, about which the county prosecutor was feeling confident, Jimmy removed an envelope from his breast suit pocket, passing it across the table to McMaster. Leland opened the package, taking time to review the photo critically, as if assessing the performance of his son.
“There were copies,” Cromwell told McMaster. “And negatives. I’ve retrieved them from Womack, who retrieved them from the boy. I have them at the office, under lock and key.”
“Good work,” replied McMaster, his jaw working overtime to grind his molars into dust, his eyes fixed on the image before him.
“I can virtually guarantee there are no others, Leland.”
“You did well to get your hands on this,” McMaster said, taking his eyes from the photo, slapping it with a snap against his thigh. “You’ll be wanting to retain possession, I imagine?”
“It would be best. There’s no telling where this all may lead. If worse comes to worse, it wouldn’t do for either you or I to be accused of suppressing, or destroying evidence in the prosecution of a capital crime. If your son is involved, Leland, it would be tragic: for you or I to sacrifice ourselves as a consequence of a cover-up, would be wasteful.”
“You’re right, of course,” agreed McMaster sincerely, after only a moment’s hesitation. He replaced the photograph in the envelope, returning it to Cromwell. “What do you suggest we do?”
Cromwell resented the notion
“we”
had anything to do at all, that the problem conceivably could belong to anyone but Leland McMaster and his son, let alone the county prosecutor. He didn’t say this. Rather he suggested, “Leland might go away.”
McMaster turned his eyes to a set of French doors opening on to a flagstone patio. Beyond a formal garden planted with roses, the property stretched to the horizon. At dusk, the tree line turned from green to gold against the backdrop of an amber-colored sky. Leland seemed not to notice, preoccupied instead with calculating his acreage and the number of building lots each might realistically yield.
He said, “I could send him to college; out of state.”
“We spoke about this, Leland, at the arraignment of the colored boy. Your son’s testimony over Bitson’s behavior at the diner was critical in convincing the judge to indict. It will be critical in convincing a jury to convict. This,” he said, referring to the photo, “complicates things. It makes it impossible for me to risk calling him to the stand. If the defense gets hold of these, Leland’s credibility is shot.” Cromwell snapped his fingers.
“If he were away, would he be required to testify?”
“It’s a capital crime; he would, which is why I’m thinking farther away, Leland,” said Cromwell. “Overseas.”
“Like the Sorbonne?”
If Leland Junior was subpoenaed while attending college abroad, Jimmy Cromwell couldn’t prevent an appearance; he hadn’t yet been elected District Attorney and lacked the clout. Leland’s refusal to return could jeopardize the outcome of the trial, not to mention Cromwell’s reputation.
Even so, the decision was more problematic than Jimmy was prepared to admit to McMaster. If brought to light, the photo, together with his refusal to return home to testify, would make Leland Junior immediately suspect. The notion of a privileged child killer shipped abroad to attend college by his influential father to evade a murder rap—and, should it become known, aided and abetted in the exercise by the county prosecutor—would play poorly in the opinion of a conservative public and local press. On the other hand, if young Leland were to fight the good fight, perhaps willingly enlist and disappear for a time into the festering jungles of Vietnam, kill a few gooks and return home a decorated war hero with a Purple Cross, it might be considered punishment enough by the constituency Cromwell sought to appease. He suggested as much to Leland Senior.
“He could also return home in a pine box,” McMaster said to Cromwell, echoing a sentiment he had more than once issued to his son. “As a solution, Jimmy, I think it’s no solution at all.” McMaster drained his tumbler, moving to a sideboard to refill his glass. He did not offer another to his guest.
“Not having a child of my own, I won’t pretend to appreciate your dilemma,” said Cromwell, unsure himself as to the decision he hoped for Leland to make. “If nothing else, a tour of duty overseas spares your family its reputation. I can’t say the same if he stays, whether or not he actually faces an indictment. And there is one more thing you should consider.”
McMaster remained silent, as if waiting for a second shoe to drop.
“Semen, Leland. Extracted from the body during the post mortem. We’ve proven conclusively that it does not belong to the black boy. If your son is serving overseas, we can’t test his blood. There’s no way we can prove the ejaculate belongs to him.”
“I’ll think on it,” McMaster said, his back turned, indicating to Cromwell the discussion was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
ON THE FIRST
Saturday morning following the murder, Dojcsak woke early to the sound of mourning doves outside his open bedroom window. It was a fine spring day, a day to banish any thought of relocating south to Florida. The sky was high and pale, a pre-summer blue stretching like a vast carpet into space; the
Face of God
, Dojcsak imagined, final sight for the space shuttles Challenger and Columbia crew as in that final, painless and mindless instant they became one again with the elements. Dojcsak took comfort in this, as he supposed, too, must have the families of the fallen astronauts.
Though not a religious man, if asked, Ed Dojcsak might characterize himself as being reasonably spiritual. He accepted the existence of
A
God, though not necessarily
The
God of his mother, or his youth. This God, he decided at an early age, was a conniving son of a bitch, having him confess his sins as if in the hereafter things might go easier on Dojcsak if only he would. As a cop, in this respect, Dojcsak imagined he and his God were much the same; if not in character, at least in the certain knowledge of how, in their
un
-Godly ways, they possessed power to manipulate the conscience of others.
Dojcsak smoked, relieved himself, scraped his face (in that order) and dressed in a pair of well-worn yet serviceable chinos, one of the few pairs remaining to him that he was able—though with effort—to buckle over his ever expanding waistline.
Rena had been up before him, her presence marked by the muffled sound of restless activity that typically accompanied her weekend chores. As it was Saturday, she hadn’t bothered to prepare him coffee. Whereas Dojcsak might otherwise have opted to take the car, today he covered on foot the short distance from his home to the
Big Top Diner
. It wasn’t the New York City Marathon, but for Ed Dojcsak it was a start, a modest fulfillment of the promise he’d made to Henry Bauer to begin taking better care of his health.
Dojcsak slipped from the house quietly, thankfully managing to avoid Jennifer, who remained sleeping, and Rena, now in the cellar laundry room preoccupied with a week’s worth of laundry.
Dojcsak sat at the coffee bar, among a group of Saturday morning regulars. The diner was packed at this time of day. Though he couldn’t say for certain, Dojcsak suspected that a place at the coffee counter had been purposely set-aside on his behalf; the center seat of eleven, five either side. A corner television was tuned to Fox News, recounting that network’s particular version of the latest battlefield updates from the Middle East. Though Dojcsak supported the troops, he didn’t necessarily support the
war
, as they called it nowadays. A card carrying Republican, he rejected the hyperbole with which the Administration characterized the fighters of
ISIS
; Dojcsak recognized the face of evil and to his mind they were not it.
He ordered coffee and two deep fried apple fritters. (Of the diet, Henry Bauer had cautioned him to
begin gradually
, which Dojcsak now was attempting to do, his regular Saturday morning constitutional consisting typically of two eggs, bacon, home fries and, afterward, two of the sticky buns.) Dojcsak was self-consciously aware of the hush that greeted his arrival. He sat pressed between Andy Pardoe to his right, and to the left, His Right Honorable Worship the Mayor, Keith Chislett. Dojcsak sipped coffee, chewed his fritter thoughtfully, wondering just how long his newfound resolution could possibly hold.
“Farmer’s Almanac is predicting a mild spring with a hot dry summer,” Chislett said to no one and to everyone.
“We need it,” said Pardoe. “It’s been a long winter.”
Chislett concurred. “You’ll get away then, Ed?”
For years and since anyone could recall, it was Dojcsak’s custom during the spring and summer months to hitch his small trailer to the car and to strap his twelve-foot run-about to the roof rack prior to disappearing into the Adirondacks for days on end, always returning with a catch worthy of mounting, framing and admiration, though Dojcsak refused to reveal the exact location of his haul. If pressed, he would say somewhere north of Diamond Point but south of Bolton Landing, knowing the information to be meaningless, the distance spanning a remote shoreline of more than fifteen craggy miles.
“That’s the plan,” Dojcsak agreed.
“
The Broadmoor
has a dynamite schedule this year,” Pardoe said, referring to the local theater. “
Lady Be Good
, a musical comedy, and
Picnic
, just to prove to the critics we’re
serious
.”
“Mmm,” said Chislett, “powerful stuff,” though he himself was not familiar with either production. “The Board of Directors is thinking about adding weekday matinees; to encourage the tours.”
“The
buses?
”
“The
buses,
” replied Chislett reverentially,
buses
in the world of tourism being the Holiest of Holy Grails by which to validate a travel destination such as that to which Church Falls aspired to be.
The waitress returned, offering coffee. Chislett accepted, as did Pardoe. Dojcsak declined, ordering a third fritter, washing the second down with the tepid remains in his cup. He asked for water; a tall glass, no ice. Without requesting permission, he ignited a cigarette.
“Could be a good summer,” said Pardoe.
“Could be; possibly the best yet,” replied Chislett. “After all, what with war, disease and the threat of suicide attacks, people are likely to stay close to home; avoid the airports, big cities, and trips overseas.”
“Unless,” Pardoe said, “we have another killing.”
“Ay-uh,” said the Mayor, lowering his voice. “It would be unfortunate, that.”
Dojcsak said, “For the victim, Keith, or for the town?”
“I’m not a heartless man, Ed. My sympathies go out to the family, but I do have to consider the greater good. I’m concerned for the loss of life as much—
more
—as for the loss of goodwill. It’s my responsibility.”
“Any progress, Ed” asked Pardoe, “with the investigation?”
“Nothing I can discuss.”
“Nothing? No suspects, no clues?” Pardoe asked, as if for him it were difficult to fathom.
“This isn’t television, Andy,” Dojcsak said, mimicking the words of the Medical Examiner at the crime scene. “These things take time.”
Chislett said, “The summer season is approaching, Ed, we don’t have time. We can’t have people think we’re not doing all we can.”
“Or that
I’m
doing all
I
can?”
“Just saying, Ed. Personally, I think you’re doing all that you’re able to do, but what
I
think doesn’t matter. It’s what the tourists—and
tour operators
—think. A lot is at stake. We need to solve this thing quickly.”
“We?”
“Yes, Ed,
we
; the people in charge.”
Behind the service counter, on the same grill, the cook flipped pancakes, bacon, eggs, and home fried potatoes, afterward dragging his hands over an already greasy apron. The waitress barked orders: two, three, four in succession. The faint odor of onion and grease reached Dojcsak’s nostrils. He said, “We have no witnesses, Keith. No one seems to have seen or heard a thing.”
“Nothing? No one? How can that
be?”
Around them other customers strained to overhear the conversation.
“It was a miserable day. People stayed indoors.” As if in his own defense, Dojcsak added, “It got dark early that night.”
Lowering his voice, Chislett said, “There are less than ten thousand citizens in this town, Ed. More than half those are children, half yet again are women. Eliminate the elderly and the infirm and what’s left? It’s been almost a week. Are you telling me you have
no
idea?”
Dojcsak was telling him exactly that; he had no idea except to say the father—the obvious suspect—no longer seemed so obvious, having been home with his eldest daughter and his wife at the time of the killing. In separate interviews, they confirmed this. “This isn’t to say they aren’t lying,” Dojcsak added, “only to say that unless Eugene Bitson breaks down completely and confesses to the crime, or they change their story, he is not our best suspect. I’ve talked to the man; my gut tells me it’s not him.”
In fact, though Dojcsak had spoken with Eugene, the interrogation had been neither enthusiastic nor intense. From the outset, Ed was skeptical of the likelihood in proving Eugene’s guilt.
The scent of fried eggs and bacon was heavy in the air. Dojcsak summoned the waitress. “Eggs over easy, sausage, home fries on the side,” he said. (So much for wondering just how long his newfound resolution could possibly hold.)
To Chislett, Dojcsak said, “Christopher Burke and Sara Pridmore have been working overtime (
watch the payroll, Ed
, the Mayor said in response to this) talking to teachers and students at Missy’s school.”
While excelling in the performing arts, he added, she was shown to be a less than inspired pupil. Despite this, Missy had been granted the privilege to attend a once weekly advanced dance class in the studio of Marie Radigan. It seemed Missy attended church regularly, studying her bible and confessing to her sins, presumably, at the altar of her Aunt, Cassie McMaster.
“Couldn’t have done, Ed,” offered Andy Pardoe at this point.
“Couldn’t have done what?’ asked Dojcsak.
“Confessed her sins, Ed. Reverend McMaster is High Church. Only Catholics
Confess
their sins.”
Be that as it may, Dojcsak went on, where it regards Missy—and other members of the church, he imagined—she was not without sin. Dojcsak admitted that according to forensics, though Missy may have had relations prior to her death, she was not raped. “From what we know of the girl, we have our work cut out to identify suspects from what appears to be a long list.”
Dojcsak’s breakfast arrived. He reached for a shaker and salted heavily.
Exasperated, Andy Pardoe said, “She was thirteen, Ed.” Dojcsak looked to him as if he were naïve.
“It’s a crime of passion then?” asked Chislett.
“Appears so,” said Dojcsak. “Though I won’t say the killing isn’t a direct result of sexual misconduct, it isn’t random. She may have brought it on herself, through her own behavior.”
“Brought it on
herself
?” said Pardoe.
Chislett explained. “What Ed is saying, Andy, is she knew her killer. That’s a good thing; it reduces the likelihood of a repeat performance. Am I right, Ed?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “If it was personal, to do with her behavior, then we may have seen the last of it. Reports of a deranged serial killer indiscriminately killing young ladies would not be good for the summer tourist trade.”
Pardoe said, “Bit like déjà vu, isn’t it? This conversation?”
Chislett said, “Don’t get nostalgic, Andy. It isn’t déjà vu at all.”
Pardoe said, “But…”
Chislett cut him off. “No
buts
, Andy; we’re not talking swallows to Capistrano, here. It’s like Ed says: function of the girl’s behavior.”
Dojcsak said, “These things take time. We’ve had help from the State Police, canvassing for witnesses, but ultimately, the responsibility to question possible suspects is mine, and I’m only one.”
Chislett studied Dojcsak thoughtfully: his size; his bulk, struggling like an overcooked breakfast sausage to remain encased within his trousers; the florid complexion, and the bloody lacerations where, apparently, Dojcsak had carelessly nicked himself while shaving, as if so much damage could be possibly caused by a safety razor. A strange man, Chislett thought, always was, not particularly incompetent at law enforcement, but an ostrich where it regarded his own family. Looking at him now—perspiring, quaking—Chislett wondered if Ed Dojcsak might not be seriously ill.
They sat in silence for a moment before Dojcsak placed a ten-dollar bill on the countertop: enough to cover his meal including a generous tip. He wrapped his third fritter, “to go”, in a paper napkin, pulled himself from the barstool and departed thirty seconds later with: “Goodbye, I’ll keep you informed,” for the benefit of the Mayor.
At home, Dojcsak raked the snow-flattened front lawn, not so much dismayed to know Jenny was smoking but that she did so in such utter defiance of him. He tilled soil in the garden, even though it was far too early in the season to plant, and enjoyed the scent of a lilac bush in early bloom. A burst of color had appeared in one errant patch of the yard: enthusiastic yet premature daffodils?