The Cinco de Mayo Murder (11 page)

“Interesting,” I said. “I wonder if he's changed his name.”

“That's a pretty big step.”

“Not if you're trying to disappear. And it certainly looks as though that's what he's done.”

Fallon muttered a few words of agreement. Then he said, “Have you talked to McHugh yet?”

“I was just about to call when the phone rang.”

“McHugh might know where Millman is. I think they were friends. The truth is, most of us on that corridor that year were at least friendly toward each other. Some of us became lifelong friends; others just remained good acquaintances. I'd like to know what happened to Millman.”

“Maybe his mother will call you back.”

“And maybe one of us'll find out where he is through another channel. Let me know how your conversation with Marty McHugh goes.”

“I will. And thanks for calling.”

I decided to ask Jack later to see if Steven Millman's name came up on his computer as a felon or having been arrested. I suspected it wouldn't, but Jack might know where to look to eke out some tidbit of information. Why does a young man of nineteen or twenty drop out of school, fiddle with the possibility of coming back, and then drop out of life? I could hardly imagine Jack's mother telling a college buddy of his that she would see if she could find him. If Steve Millman had not completed college, it might limit his future achievements. Perhaps he had finished elsewhere under his name and then dropped out of sight. But most of all, the coincidence of his not returning to Rimson after Heinz's death raised a red flag.

I set aside my discomfort and dialed the number Fallon had given me for Martin McHugh. It rang several times. Then a mechanical voice came on to tell me that—and here
McHugh inserted his own name in his own voice—was unavailable and please leave a name and number. I declined to do so. There were other options, one of them being a chat with an operator. Maybe later, I thought. I didn't want to give up too much myself and give him the upper hand. Perhaps he refused to answer his phone at all until the caller was identified.

I pulled out the sketch of the dorm corridor. I had already spoken to or attempted to contact four of the students: Fallon, Millman, McHugh, and Woodson. Heinz was the fifth person, leaving four more names on the list. I had not picked the original four at random. Either their rooms were close to Heinz's or they had some attribute, like living in Phoenix, that prompted me to start there. Now it was time to assess the last four.

A man named Andrew Franklin lived and worked in Minneapolis. There was a time difference, but it was late enough in the morning that he would be at work. A pleasant woman answered, noting the name of a law firm, and I asked to speak to Mr. Franklin. She was much easier to deal with than Barry Woodson's receptionist in New York, and in a few moments I was talking to Mr. Franklin.

“Heinz Gruner,” he said. “I haven't heard that name mentioned in many years. I knew him, of course. We were both students at Rimson, but he suffered a fatal accident.”

“That's what I'm calling about,” I said, having been given my opening. I reminded him about the accident and told him I had known Heinz in high school. “I'm trying to learn exactly what led to his accident, and Dean Hershey gave me a list of all the students who lived on Heinz's corridor that semester.”

“What's your theory?”

“I think someone was with him on that mountain, Mr. Franklin. Did you travel to Arizona that spring?”

“Never set foot in the state. I thrive on cold weather.”

I was happy to hear someone did. “Do you know who accompanied him or who might have met him down there?”

“Not an inkling. I remember the morning he took off from school. I helped him down to a taxi with his luggage. He was trying to do it all by himself and I figured he'd topple down the stairs if he didn't have help.”

I perked up. “You helped him with his luggage?”

“Down to the taxi, yes.”

“Do you remember how much he had?”

“Couple of heavy suitcases. That was before the day of these wheelie things. You had to hoist those old ones and boy, were his old. Looked like they came from the Old World.”

They probably had, I thought. “Do you recall if he had a backpack, Mr. Franklin?”

“I'm sure he didn't.”

“Was he going to Arizona directly from school?”

“Oh yes. He had finished the one or two finals he had to take and was on his way. I was in the dorm that morning studying for one of my own or I wouldn't have been around to help. He was flying to Phoenix.”

“His luggage was never recovered after the accident,” I said. “That's why I'm asking.”

“Hard to misplace that big one of his. I could hardly lift it. Must have had all his clothes from the whole year. Maybe he was planning on buying a backpack when he got to Phoenix. I know he intended to do some climbing. He told me as we jockeyed those bags down the stairs.”

“Did he say with whom?”

“If he did, it didn't register.”

“Do you remember a student named Steven Millman?”

“Steve? Sure. He was on the same corridor that year.”

“He lived in Phoenix,” I said. “You don't happen to remember
if he was in the same taxi intending to join Heinz in Arizona?”

“No idea. Wait a minute. There was something strange about Millman. Let me think.” A few silent seconds passed. “He dropped out of school.”

“That's what I heard.”

“You know, I never connected his dropping out with Heinz's death until this minute.” He sounded distressed.

“I don't know if there is a connection,” I said, “but it's one of the things I'm working on.”

“Interesting. Have you spoken to Millman?”

I told him what had happened when Herb Fallon called Millman's mother.

“So he's made himself unavailable. You know, I never heard about Heinz's accident till I got back to campus that fall. We had a convocation the first day we were back and the dean told us. I didn't know Steve was gone until a couple of weeks into the semester when it just came to me that he wasn't there.”

“Was anyone in your class a close friend of Steve?”

“I don't know. I think he had a double room that last year. His roommate was—”

“Arthur Howell?” I asked, reading the name off my diagram.

“Artie, right. Give Artie a call. He'll know where Steve is.”

I wasn't as convinced as Mr. Franklin, but I was certainly going to try. “I will do that. Just to get my notes right: no one else was taking Heinz's taxi to the airport, correct?”

“Correct. When the suitcases were in the trunk, the driver took off. There were two heavy suitcases and no backpack.”

“You've been very helpful, Mr. Franklin.” I finished off the conversation with my usual request that he get in touch if he remembered anything new. He promised he would,
and I thought he sounded sincere. After twenty years of not giving Heinz Gruner and his death a thought, Andrew Franklin had suddenly had his eyes opened to possibilities he had never dreamed of.

For my part, I now knew that Heinz had taken off with heavy luggage. What had become of it?

The person to talk to was Mrs. Gruner. There was a possibility that Heinz had shipped one or both suitcases back home before he got on his flight to Phoenix. That was something she would remember. And if she never saw any of his luggage again, even in her grief she would likely recall that fact.

I got in my car and drove over to Hillside Village. It wasn't quite lunchtime yet, and I was able to catch her sitting in a sunny room enclosed in glass at the back of the building. She was talking to a woman about her age, but when she saw me she brightened and waved me over. The other woman got up and walked away, joining a small group near the window.

We caught up for a few minutes like old friends. I told her she looked better than when I'd last seen her, and she admitted that she'd decided to become more active, to spend less time in her room and more time among the residents.

“I think it's doing you good,” I said. “I want to tell you what I've been doing since I last saw you.” I told her about my trip to Arizona, leading in gently to my visit to Picacho Peak Park.

“You went there?” She seemed astounded.

“It's a beautiful place,” I said. “And I wanted to see if I could learn more about Heinz's death.”

Her face became sober, the lines in her forehead deeper. “You found out something, Chris?”

“I found out a few things and I have some questions for you.”

“I will tell you anything I know.”

The first thing I did was go over the names of the young men on the dormitory corridor. I read them off slowly, asking her if any of them sounded familiar. She listened attentively as I read each one, then shookher head, appearing discouraged. When I said, “Herb Fallon,” though, she perked up.

“Herb,” she repeated. “Herbie. Maybe he knew a Herbie. Maybe I heard that name from him.”

“He's a professor at Rimson now,” I said. “He liked Heinz very much.”

“A professor,” she said sadly. “My boy would have been a professor.”

I waited. Finally, she told me to continue. I read off the last few names. One sounded somewhat familiar, but she could identify no one as good friend or best friend or hiking companion. The name Steve Millman rang no bell.

“I want to ask you about Heinz's luggage,” I said.

“What luggage?”

“He took suitcases to school, didn't he?”

“In the fall, yes. In the spring he brought them home.”

“But that spring he flew to Phoenix.”

“So what happened to his luggage?” she asked.

“That's my question.”

She thought quietly. “If my husband were here, he would remember. Wait, wait. Yes, something happened with the suitcases. There were two. One we had from Germany. The other we bought when he started at Rimson. When he came home for holidays, he brought the smaller one with him. But he went from Rimson to Arizona that spring; I remember
that. He took all of it with him. When he died and my husband went out, there was no suitcase, just a—what do you call it? One of those things you carry on your back when you hike.”

“A backpack,” I said.

“A small backpack. No clothes.”

“Did your husband inquire after the suitcases?”

She shrugged. “Maybe. It was the least of our problems.” She closed her eyes. “There was something,” she said, “something funny about the suitcases. Let me think a moment.”

I stood and walked to the large window. Beautiful plantings and a small waterfall were just beyond the glass, separated by a path for walkers. I was impressed with the care this institution had taken for the sake of beauty. At this time of year, the greenery was lush and the water so clear it made me thirsty.

“Chris.”

I turned. Mrs. Gruner's eyes were open, wide open.

“A suitcase came to the house. I remember now. It was after my husband came back, after the funeral. The doorbell rang one morning and when I opened the door, there was a man with a piece of paper for me to sign. I was so shocked when I saw the suitcase, I could hardly breathe. It was as though Heinz were about to walk through the open door. Only there was no Heinz. There was just a suitcase.”

“Who sent it?”

“I don't know. It was paid for, I remember that. I asked the man if I had to pay and he said no, it was all taken care of. I called my husband and told him. I wouldn't open it till he came home.”

“Was it locked?” I asked.

“Not with a key. With some wire. If you opened the wire, it broke.”

“For security,” I said. “Did you have the key?”

“It was on the key ring in Heinz's pocket. He had the key to our house and the keys for both suitcases. But only one suitcase came, and we never found out who sent it.”

“Do you remember what was in it?”

“Clothes. Clean clothes, dirty clothes. Some schoolbooks. There was nothing important, nothing that could tell us what had happened to our son on that mountain.”

“What did you do with the suitcase?”

“I don't remember anymore. I washed the clothes, I hung them up in his closet. Later on, after my husband died, after I had my stroke and I knew I couldn't live there by myself, I gave away everything that I couldn't take with me to Hillside Village.”

I thought how terrible that must have been, disposing of the clothing and mementos of the two people she had loved most. I, too, had a husband and a son—a husband who had achieved a great deal because of his hard work and strong commitment, and a son who we hoped would go even further with his life.

“Did you try to find out who had sent the suitcase?” I asked.

“My husband called the police. They said there was no suitcase. They had given him everything they had.”

“Which was the wallet, the keys, and the small backpack.”

“Yes. That was all. And we never got the second suitcase.”

“Do you know what was missing from his things?”

“No. He had simple clothes, enough to go a week before doing a laundry. If a blue shirt was missing or a pair of jeans they were all wearing, how should I know? And why should I care? Nothing mattered to me anymore.”

“I understand. Tell me, did you speak to him often on the phone?”

“Not so often. We wrote letters.”