The Cinco de Mayo Murder (10 page)

I was enjoying the professor's candid remarks. “According to the information Dean Hershey sent me, the boy from Phoenix never changed his address.”

“I'm glad you talked to Hershey. He's a good guy, a straight shooter. And Heinz and I took a course with him. About Steve Millman, all I can say is I haven't seen him at a reunion. And I get the list.”

“I have a question about another person on that corridor. His name is Martin McHugh. Do you remember him?”

“Marty, yeah. He lived next door to me. What about him?”

“There's no information on him after graduation, no address, no work, nothing.”

“Interesting. I haven't seen him since we graduated. I don't remember what his major was. I'll ask around.”

“That would be helpful. I was planning to call the last number the college has for him, his parents’ home. If they're still there, maybe they'll tell me where he is.”

“OK. Look, here's what I'm going to do. I have some numbers of friends from my undergraduate days. I'll give them a ring and ask some questions. You want to know about Steve Millman, the guy from Phoenix; Martin McHugh; and anything I can find out about whom Heinz might have gone to Arizona with.”

“Yes. I don't know if this case can be resolved, but I'd like to give it a try. What his mother is most concerned about is whether her son committed suicide.”

“Suicide,” Fallon said. “He never struck me as depressed or unhappy. He was a quiet guy, but that doesn't mean he was suicidal. And just because I'm loud doesn't mean I'm happy. I'll get back to you, Miss Bennett.”

“Chris,”

I said. “Chris. I'm Herb, Herb the bully. My wife thinks I'm a pussycat, by the way.”

I didn't believe for a moment in the characterization. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

I had jotted down several phrases of his as he spoke. He certainly seemed to know the young men on that corridor, and I felt fortunate that I had run into him before I called anyone else. I decided not to call Steve Millman, the student from Phoenix, until Fallon got back to me about why he had dropped out of school. That left six on my list. I dialed the twenty-year-old number for the student who had disappeared, Martin McHugh. It rang and rang. No one answered and no machine picked up, which struck me as odd. Finally I hung up and went on to the next name on my list, the lawyer in New York.

Lawyers know how to insulate themselves. A professionalsounding woman answered with the words, “Law office.” I asked for Barry Woodson and she began to interrogate me. I wondered how this man ever acquired new clients. I might well have given up after the first few questions.

“I want to talk to him about something to do with his alma mater, Rimson College,” I said.

“Mr. Woodson does not take telephone solicitations.”

Gimme a break, I said in my head, echoing my husband—and lately my son. “I am not soliciting. This is an important matter concerning a fellow alumnus of Mr. Woodson.”

“Let me see if he's available.”

I waited through some clicks, and suddenly a man's voice said, “This is Barry Woodson.” He sounded much more friendly than his receptionist, and I began to change my opinion of lawyers.

“Mr. Woodson, my name is Christine Bennett. I went to high school with Heinz Gruner, whom you knew at Rimson College.”

“Heinz, yes. My room was next to his one year. Didn't he die in an accident?”

“He did. I'm looking into the events surrounding his fall in Arizona, and some new information about the accident has surfaced.”

“How can I help you?”

Whew. I gave him some information, then asked, “Did you happen to accompany him to Arizona on that trip?”

“I've never been to Arizona.”

“Do you know whether Heinz made the trip alone or went with a friend?”

“You know, I hardly remember talking about it. I think he wanted to hike somewhere and then during the summer I heard, maybe from a friend, that he'd had an accident and
died. When I got back to campus in the fall, no one seemed to know much about what happened.”

“The accident took place on a mountain north of Tucson. Someone on your dormitory corridor that year was from Phoenix. His name was Steve Millman. Do you remember him?”

“Steve, yes, I do remember him. I think he dropped out of school.”

“He did. Do you know if he went to Arizona with Heinz?”

“Miss Bennett, you're asking me to recall a small detail of my college life that must have taken place close to twenty years ago. I hardly remember that Heinz was planning a trip to Arizona. I have no idea whether Steve or anyone else had plans to go with him.”

“Were you friendly with Steve?”

“We had a class together now and then. It's a small school so we all got to know each other. I knew him but I wouldn't characterize our relationship as being friends. And I never saw him after that year.”

“Was there anyone on that corridor who was your friend?”

“Herb Fallon. We were buddies. He's on the faculty now: History Department. He comes to New York once in a while and we get together. You should give him a call.”

“I've already spoken to him. I'd like to ask you about one other student. His name is Martin McHugh.”

“Marty, yes. I knew him.”

“The college has only his telephone number from the time he was a student, and they've never heard from him. Have you, by any chance?”

“Sorry. We graduated and I never saw him again.”

“Thank you, Mr. Woodson. May I call you again if I have some more specific questions?”

“Sure. If something happened to Heinz that wasn't an accident, I'd like to know about it.”

I thanked him and ended the call.

Now I would wait to hear from Herbert Fallon. I had done enough for one day and had plenty of leads to follow.

I had not yet told Jack about my day when the phone rang after dinner and Professor Fallon announced himself.

“Yes,” I said, feeling as eager as I'm sure I sounded. “Do you have something for me?”

“I got over to the records office before they closed this afternoon. This fellow Steven Millman from Phoenix is an interesting story. There's a note in his file that he failed to arrive for the fall semester, and his family called and then wrote to ask for their tuition and other expenses back.”

“Sounds like he made a last-minute decision. I assume they would have had to send a check for the fall term some weeks in advance.”

“Definitely. So whatever changed his mind occurred late in the summer, months after Heinz's death. About a year after that, Steve wrote to the registrar to see if he could reapply for admission. They said he could but he never took the step. That's the last correspondence of record.”

“And there's no explanation of why he failed to show up that fall?”

“Nothing. His parents simply wrote that he decided to drop out of school and pursue other endeavors—those are the words they used—and they hoped this would not prejudice his possible readmission at a later time. It's a carefully
worded letter. I almost have the feeling a lawyer helped them write it. I called the last phone number for the Millmans, but it's been changed.”

“I'll see what I can do to find him,” I said.

“I also looked into the fellow who graduated and was never heard from again, Martin McHugh. There's nothing in the records that would indicate a problem with the college, so I called an old friend who knew him. He said Marty just didn't relate to reunions and sports, and since he didn't love Rimson, he's never written a check.”

“Did your friend have a phone number for McHugh?”

“Got it right here.” He read off a number with a familiar area code.

“He's in New York?” I said.

“Lives and works there. I think he's in broadcasting or television or some such.”

“I'll call him tomorrow. Looks like we're doing pretty well here.” I told him I had spoken to Barry Woodson.

“Barry, right. He practices law.”

“Yes, and he thought you might be able to help me.” “We're in touch from time to time. Well, that's all I've got for you tonight. I'll make some more phone calls and let you know what I find out.”

The whereabouts of Martin McHugh had turned out to be simple and straightforward, not a hint of mystery about it. He had graduated and put his college days behind him.

Jack had been making coffee as I spoke to Herbert Fallon, and I could smell it when I got off the phone. We sat in our usual places in the family room, the file between us. I opened it and showed him the sketch of the dorm corridor and all the information I had received that morning from Dean Hershey.

“The guy sounds very cooperative,” Jack said. “This is nice. And he got it to you fast.”

“He knew Heinz and he wants to know what happened on that mountain.”

“Who just called?”

I explained and then told him what I'd learned during the day about the young men on that corridor twenty years ago. “And my big mystery isn't a mystery anymore. He's alive and well and living in New York. He just doesn't send checks to Rimson.”

“Not everyone does. In big universities, only a small percentage of graduates ever contribute. They make their money from the handful of financially successful alumni who have a conscience—or want to be remembered as big givers. Sounds like you've had a busy day.”

“Very busy. You were lucky to get fed tonight. It's just that I got hungry myself.”

“Glad to hear it. So you've got a guy on that corridor who lived in Phoenix and never came back to Rimson after Heinz's accident. Sounds promising.”

“Except I don't know where he is. Herb Fallon is going to try to locate him. I've been lucky so far, finding a dean who knew Heinz and then this Professor Fallon. He's quite a character: refers to himself as a bully—which he sounds like—and says his wife thinks he's a pussycat.”

Jack gave me the grin. “It's the only way she can stay married to him. You probably think I'm a pushover, too.”

“Well. Only sometimes.” I told him about Herb Fallon's description of Heinz and the mysterious stranger.

“That's pretty thin. Even if Fallon is convinced the stranger wasn't a student or professor at Rimson, that doesn't exclude the community outside the college. The guy could have been from a church or a local radio station or someplace in town where Gruner was trying to get a part-time job. Fallon made it seem sub rosa, but more likely it was just a meeting of two people who had something to say to each other.”

“I'll see where it fits when I learn more,” I said noncommittally. Jack often pooh-poohs some of my unusual findings, but in his own work he treats such information more seriously.

“What I think you're on to is the lack of a change of clothes and transportation to the mountain. Somebody drove Gruner there and then disappeared, probably with another backpack or suitcase. Doesn't mean he did anything to Gruner. He may have panicked when Gruner fell down the mountain and just took off. But this missing man is the key to what happened.”

“I hope Herb Fallon gets back to me with the Phoenix guy's address and phone number. In the meantime, I'll call Martin McHugh in the morning, the one I thought was missing for twenty years but seems to be alive and working in New York.”

“Home of missing persons.”

“I wonder if the other man could have been Herb Fallon.” Jack laughed. “Now you're starting to sound like your jaded, suspicious husband.”

“Wish I were as good a cook.”

“It'll come,” Jack said. “We're not married ten years yet.”

I lingered over the Times with my last cup of coffee after Jack and Eddie were gone on Wednesday morning. Then I sat back, the cup empty, the world news folded to the editorial page. As I sat thinking, not of the news but of the Heinz Gruner case, I realized I had all but given up the idea that Heinz had committed suicide. It wasn't completely out of the question. He might have jumped off the path without warning, even with a friend standing nearby, helpless to stop him. But I didn't think so. And in making that decision, I had accomplished all that Mrs. Gruner wanted, the
knowledge that her son's death had been something other than suicide. I was sure that murder had never entered her mind, but it had certainly entered mine. And I would not disregard the mysterious stranger. Now that I knew about him, I could ask the other former students if they had knowledge of this person.

I cleaned up the kitchen, wiping up my son's crumbs, and opened my notebook to the page with Martin McHugh's phone number. I never call people at the very beginning of the business day. I give them a chance to be late, to grab a cup of coffee, to talk to fellow workers, and finally to sit at their desk to start their day. Mr. McHugh had another ten minutes coming.

The phone rang about eight minutes later.

“Herb Fallon here.”

“Good morning.”

“I had a busy night after we talked. I've been trying to find Steven Millman, our friend from Phoenix who left Rimson and never came back.”

“Yes,” I said, hoping I didn't sound too eager.

“I talked to his mother last night.”

“Really? Is she still in Phoenix?”

“Yes, she is, still in the same house but with a new number.”

“Did she give you a number for Steve?”

“Not only did she not give me a number, she acted pretty cagey when I asked her for it. I tried to make like I was an old friend who'd lost touch, but she wouldn't budge. Finally she asked for my number and said she'd see if she could find him—those were her words—and if she did, she'd let him know I was trying to reach him. It doesn't sound too promising. If he's told her not to give out his number, or if she really doesn't know where her son is, I think we have a problem.”