Barry Friedman - Dead End (10 page)

Rankins drove the Dodge van at a steady
fifty-five from Massillon, Ohio to Pittsburgh. It was an easy two and one-half
hour drive through pleasant countryside. The window on the driver’s side was
open; the warm breeze massaged his face.

He didn’t need radio talk shows to occupy his
thoughts. The voices coming from the back of the van kept him company. First,
Willie Jackson sang in his rich baritone, “Sweeeeet Chariot, Comin’ fo’ to
carry me home.” The song gave him a lump the size of a golf ball in his throat.
But the topper was when King David sang,

“The waves of death were all around me,

The waves of destruction rolled over me,

The danger of death was around me,

And the grave set a trap for me,

In my trouble I called to the Lord,

I called to my God for help,

In his temple he heard my voice,

He listened to my cry for help.”

He
felt the tears roll down his cheeks as he listened. With his eyes glued on the
road ahead, he called back over his shoulder, “I hear you too, Dave. I’m coming
with help. You wait and see. Just you wait and see.”

At the
outskirts of Pittsburgh, the traffic was heavier. When he reached the western
end of the city, he turned off Route 30 and crept along behind an unbroken line
of cars and buses. Had to close the window to keep out the stinking gas fumes
and the heat that bounced up from the cement street. With the air conditioner
on it wasn’t too bad.

He
turned right to a street of old, gray two-story houses with patches of brown
dirt and weeds for lawns and pickup trucks in the driveways. Two blocks further
the houses were older and dingy, and there it was. He parked in front, the
paint on the house looking like an alligator’s hide, got out of the van and
stretched his back.

Climbing
the wooden porch stairs, he had to step around several that were split. He rang
the doorbell, saw the curtains in a downstairs window part, and Duane Jackson’s
face peered out. In a moment, the door was opened and Jackson’s height and bulk
filled the doorway. The bare black skin of his shoulders, covered only by the
thin shoulder straps of a lavender tank top, glistened with sweat. Jackson gave
him a big, toothy smile. “Hey, m’man, c’mon in.”

They
walked through the unlit hallway back to the kitchen, which always smelled like
stale beer. Jackson gestured to a chair. “Somethin’ to drink, Jock?”

Jock,
short for jockey, because he was so small. The name Duane’s brother, Willie, gave
him at Lima State. Rankins would get fired up if anybody else called him Jock.
Of course, Willie could call anybody anything. Nobody’d tangle with a guy
six-eight, two-eighty and all of it steel. But he was Willie’s buddy—his
asshole buddy. When Rankins was getting out, Willie told him if he needed
anything to see Duane. Well, he’d seen him before, was seeing him again.

“How
‘bout it, somethin’ wet?,”
  
Duane
repeated.

Rankins
shook his head. “I got to get back soon. What have you got for me?”

“I got
a nice forty-five I can let you have for three-fifty. Or how about a
three-fifty-seven Magnum? Give you a good price on it.”

“No.
Something small.”

“Another
twenty-five?”

“That’s
about right.”

“Wait
here.”

He
disappeared through a door leading to the basement, and a minute later came up
carrying a brown paper bag. From it he drew a black .25
 
caliber automatic. He held it under the light
of the exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling, and turned it from one side to the
other in his large palm. “A beauty, ain’t she?”

Rankins
took the gun, examined it closely, placing it in his own palm, testing it for
size and weight. He nodded.

“How
much?”

“Two
seventy-five. Good clean piece.”

“Can I
test it?”

“Sure.”
He led the way down the basement. At the foot of the stairs a door opened to a
long, narrow, windowless room, empty except for two mattresses standing
upright, back-to-back, against the wall at the far end. On the surface of the
mattress that faced the room, the outline of a life-size human figure had been
drawn crudely with a Magic Marker pen. The upper half of the figure was riddled
with holes.

Jackson
placed three bullets in the clip, handed the gun to Rankins. Standing in the
center of the room with his feet spread, arms outstretched toward the mattress
target, holding the automatic with both hands, Rankins squeezed off the three
rounds in rapid succession. Empty cartridge cases arched out after each shot.

He
looked down at the gun in his hand and hefted it. “Okay, I’ll take it.”

 
While Rankins counted out the money from his
wallet, Jackson put the gun back in the paper bag. “Was up to Lima to see
brother Willie last week. He say he miss yo’all.”

Jock
nodded silently and put the bills in Jackson’s palm. They went back upstairs,
Jackson continuing the conversation. “Hey, how that van runnin’?”

“Fine.
Runs fine.” Six months before, Jackson had sold him the van. Too cold to ride
his motorcycle in the winter, he said. Jackson had patted the side of the van.
“This an ‘83. You won’t have no problem with it.”

“Will I
have to get different license plates? These are Pennsylvania plates.”

Jackson
had laughed. “Nah. Don’t you worry none about them plates. Anybody ask, you
tell ‘em you got the van from some guy in Pennsylvania. You don’t have to tell
them who. Y’understand what I’m sayin’.”

“Don’t
I need registration papers?”

The
big man scratched his chin. Faint amusement in his eyes. “Registration papers.
Yeah. Wait here.”

A few
moments later he returned with a thick stack of tan papers held with a rubber
band. He thumbed through them. “Let’s see. What I say? Eighty-three Dodge? Here
we is.” He pulled out one sheet and handed it to Rankins. It was a Pennsylvania
vehicle registration for a 1983 Dodge sedan. Of course, the one he sold him was
a van. And the Vehicle Identification Number on the certificate was that of a
car that had long since been melted down. But it was close enough.

Now,
as Jackson opened the front door, he said, “Hey, man, it none of my business
but what yo’all doin’ with all them pieces? Startin’ a collection?”

 
“Yeah. I’m a collector.”

Jackson
stood at the top of the porch stairs, looking at Rankins as he walked to his
van clutching the brown paper bag. Finally, he turned, went back inside the
house shaking his head. Rankins could hear him mutter, “Man’s spooky.”

Karen Vandergrift drove and Maharos rode shotgun
in her black and white patrol car, on their way to speak to Henry Gibson’s
widow. Maharos had never before worked with a female partner. Although five
percent of the police officers were female, Detective Lieutenant Ed Bragg had
resisted accepting women detectives until a year before. After threats by the
mayor and city council to slash his already tight budget, he broke down and
accepted Lucy Gage as detective third grade. Now, four women candidates who had
passed all the qualifying tests were waiting for openings. Bragg pulled excuses
from nowhere, in order to hold off their appointments until after he retired.
When one TV newscaster called him a chauvinist, he said, “I never shoved nobody—and
I don’t give a shit what the guy says.”

Vandergrift pulled up in the driveway of the
brick three-story house in a neighborhood of upper middle-class homes. Harriet
Gibson answered the door and escorted them to the living room. Maharos glanced
around at the gold and black wallpaper, lots of mirrors, chrome and Lucite.
Gibson apparently made good money and had left his widow well off.

Mrs. Gibson was dressed in beige slacks and a
loosely fitting flowered blouse. She was in her mid-thirties, her face unlined,
light brown hair pulled back to form a ponytail held by a thin, black velvet
ribbon.

Vandergrift said, “I hope we’re not keeping you
from anything important.”

“Not really. I was supposed to go to a Little
Theater Group meeting, but it can wait.”

“Detective Maharos is from the Youngstown Police
Department. He’s investigating a homicide case in his district, and it appears
that Mr. Gibson knew the other victim. Why don’t you tell her about it, Al.”

Maharos barely recalled that he had given
Vandergrift his first name when he introduced himself to her at the sheriff’s
office. He was impressed that she remembered it. He broke away from these
thoughts and explained, with little detail, that the widow of Marlon Graves,
who was killed in March, had received a condolence note from Henry Gibson.
“Your husband was shot a month later and we wondered if you could tell us how
he knew Mr. Graves.”

Harriet Gibson stared at the carpet for the
answer. Slowly, she shook her head. “I have no idea who this Graves person is.
The only thing I can think of is that he might have been a customer of Henry’s.
My husband was assistant sales manager of a wholesale hardware company.”

“Marlon Graves was a clothing salesman for
Simpson’s in Akron. I don’t think he would have bought wholesale hardware. Is
it possible that your husband was one of his customers?”

“No. Henry bought all his clothes here in Canton.
In fact, I did most of the shopping for his clothing. He was so busy he didn’t
have much time to do it himself. If I saw something I thought would look good
on him, I would either buy it and bring it home, or have him go in for a
fitting.”

Vandergrift said, “Do you have any recollection
of him writing a condolence note?”

“No. He wouldn’t have written it from home. Henry
did all of his correspondence at the office. I was the only one who wrote
letters at home and I didn’t write a condolence letter to anyone named Graves.”

Maharos brought out the list of fifteen gunshot
victims who had been killed on the seventh of a month. In addition to Graves,
were the names of Hamberger, Horner and Burnstein. “Mrs. Gibson, look at this
list and see if any of these names are familiar.”

She ran her eyes down the list. “Burnstein. It
seems I’ve heard that name before. Here’s another, George Horner, isn’t that
the lawyer—“ she raised her head. “I’m sure I read about these people
somewhere. I don’t know any of them. What have they got to do with Henry?”

Maharos explained that they were all fairly
recent unsolved homicides, and they were looking for any possible connection
between them. They had all been well publicized because of their sensationalism
and he knew it was going to be hard to find anyone who had not read about them.

He tried another tack. “Did your husband have any
social connections that did not involve you?”

Harriet Gibson sat up rigidly. Her eyes bore
through Maharos. “If you’re suggesting that he might have been unfaithful—.”

Maharos put up a hand. He smiled. “I’m sorry.
That’s not what I meant at all. Graves was a gambler—a heavy gambler. I don’t
know how to put this question to you more delicately, but was your husband
involved in any activities which might have put him into contact with gamblers,
bookies, you know, that crowd.”

She relaxed a little, although her resentment was
still apparent. “Emphatically no.”

Maharos thought she was being unduly steamed up.
Vandergrift stepped in for the rescue. “Mrs. Gibson, I hope you understand that
we’re trying to find any clue that might lead us to your husband’s murderer.
The last thing we want to do is offend you.”

Harriet Gibson’s composure broke down. She
dropped her head and put her hand to her eyes. “I’ve been so hurt already,” she
sobbed. “You have no idea how this whole thing has changed my life. Henry’s
been gone, how long is it? Three months? What have you found out about who did
it? Nothing! Now you come in and ask all these stupid questions. How do you
expect me to feel?” She continued to sob softly, her face in her hands.

Maharos stood up and gestured with his chin to
Vandergrift. He could see they had reached the end of the line. “We’re sorry to
have upset you, Mrs. Gibson. Thank you for your time.”

Vandergrift took a card from her pocket and
placed it on the coffee table in front of the weeping woman. “Here’s my card.
If you think of anything that might be related to what we’ve been asking you,
please call.” She patted the woman’s shoulder as they left.

Back in the patrol car, they drove in silence for
a few minutes before Vandergrift said, “Shall we ask around at the place where
he worked?”

Maharos shrugged. “I suppose so, but I’m not
optimistic.”

At the offices of Sterling Wholesale Hardware,
Clarence Chambers, the sales manager checked the records of Gibson’s customers,
but found no one named Graves.

Maharos had a thought. He said, “Do you have
copies of Gibson’s business correspondence?”

Chambers said, “Yes, we’ve transferred his files
to Clem Gilmore, the man who took over Henry’s job. His office is two doors
down on your left. I’ll call over and tell him you’re coming.”

Gilmore was out of the office, but his secretary
was the same one who had worked for Gibson. Emma was a small, mousy woman in
her fifties. She appeared a little nervous seeing the two police officers walk
in.

Maharos said, “Mr. Gibson had written a
condolence note to a Mrs. Marlon Graves in Talmadge. Do you remember such a
letter?”

 
Emma
thought for a moment. “I don’t remember it specifically. But if there were a
copy of any letter such as that it would be in his personal correspondence
file. I bundled them up and asked Mrs. Gibson if she wanted them. She said she
didn’t, so I had them destroyed. Matter of fact, it was just about three days
ago. I don’t know why I kept them so long. He’s been gone about three months
now.” She looked dreamily toward the ceiling. Suddenly, she turned her head
toward Maharos. “I do remember writing the letter. Wasn’t it some man who had
been shot?”

Maharos opened his mouth to speak, but before he
could say a word, she jumped out of her chair and ran to the door. She called
back over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”

Maharos and Vandergrift looked at each other.
Vandergrift made a one-shoulder shrug. “Is that the affect you have on people?
Either they start crying or run for the hills.”

“Now you see why I’m the only flunk-out of the
Dale Carnegie course.”

Emma returned in a few minutes carrying a thick
manila file folder. She dropped it on the desk triumphantly. “The janitor
hadn’t gotten around to burning it yet. Good thing I thought of it.” She looked
from side-to-side and covered the corner of her mouth with a hand. “Half the
time, he sits down the basement with a bottle, doesn’t hear what you tell him.”

Vandergrift said, “If it helps us find what we
want, we’ll buy him a gallon of his favorite rotgut.”

Emma riffled through the papers in the file. “Do
you know when it would have been written?”

Vandergrift said, “Sometime around the early part
of March, this year.”

The secretary pulled an onionskin copy out,
glanced at it for a second and handed it to the deputy sheriff. “Here it is.”

Vandergrift held the letter so Maharos could read
it over her shoulder. He was exhilarated at the prospect of making some
progress. But not so excited that he wasn’t aware of the faint scent of her
perfume as he stood looking over her shoulder.

The letter was dated March 10.

“Dear Mrs. Graves,

“I want to express my sincere sympathy on the
loss of your husband. Although I knew him for a very short time, I was fond of
him and was shocked to read of his tragic death. I recall that he spoke of you
with great affection. I know what a loss this must mean to you.

Sincerely,

Hank Gibson”

Vandergrift said, “I was hoping the letter would
tell us how he came to know Graves.”

“At least we know that it was ‘for a very short
time.’ Wonder what that means.”

Maharos asked the secretary, “Do you have any
recollection of whether or not Mr. Gibson mentioned how he knew Graves?”

“He may have said something at the time, but I
can’t recall if he did.”

“How long had you been working for Gibson?”

“Two years. Ever since Mr. Gibson was promoted
Assistant Sales Manager. Before that I was secretary for Mr. Chambers. He had
the job and then was promoted to Sales Manager. They left me behind.” She
sniffed derisively.

“Do you have any idea where or when he might have
met Marlon Graves?”

“I’ve been thinking about that ever since you
asked about the letter. I’m afraid I don’t know. Did you ask Mrs. Gibson
whether he was a personal friend?”

Vandergrift told her briefly about their
interview with Harriet Gibson.

Maharos said, “How would you have gotten Mr.
Graves’ address?”

Emma thought for a moment. “Mr. Graves lived in
Akron, didn’t he?”

“Talmadge.”

“Well, that’s a suburb of Akron. I have a faint
recollection of looking it up in the Akron phone book.”

She reached up to a shelf on which she had a number
of phone directories. She selected one marked “Akron,” leafed through the pages
and pointed to a line. “Here it is Graves, Marlon. It gives the address.”

Maharos said, “We’d like to keep this letter. Is
that all right?”

Emma said, “Certainly. I was about to have it
destroyed anyway. Is that going to help you find whoever did that awful thing
to Mr. Gibson? He was such a hard worker, and a wonderful boss.”

“It’s going to be a big help. Thanks.”

On the way back to the sheriff’s office,
Vandergrift said, “This is the first solid lead we’ve had since we started
working on the Gibson case. Our office had just about written it off as a
homicide-robbery by some transient we’d never see again. Now we know he met
Graves. That’s a start.”

Maharos was slumped in the passenger’s seat, his
hat tipped forward over his eyes. “Yeah. Now all we have to do is go back
year-by-year and find out everything Gibson did since he was a kid.”

Vandergrift let it slide. “If Gibson knew Graves,
maybe he knew the other three you’re working on: Hamberger, Horner or
Burnstein.” Her voice had risen two decibels. She was now enthusiastically in
the hunt.

“Okay. You check with Mrs. Hamberger and
Burnstein’s—uh, wife. I’ll work on the Horner end.”

“You got it. Give me your extension at Youngstown
P.D.”

He gave her a card. “Keep in touch.”

This was going to be the start of something, he
felt.