Barry Friedman - Dead End (15 page)

Maharos said, “No, no, no. You missed the whole
point. The farmer eats the chicken, plants the grain and brings home a fox
stole for his wife.

“Of course. How could I be so stupid!”

They rode in silence for several miles, gazing at
the green fields on either side of them. It was approaching late afternoon and
dark clouds appeared in the western horizon over some low hills. A few flashes
of lightning reflected against the darkening sky, and gusts of wind bowed the
tops of trees that bordered the freeway.

Maharos said, “We’re going to catch it in about
an hour. Maybe we should think about stopping for dinner. Let it blow over.”

What he was really thinking was that they hole up
for the night in a motel along the way.

Vandergrift smiled as though she had similar
thoughts. She placed her hand on his arm. “Wish we could, Al. But I caught late
watch tonight. I’m afraid I have to be back early.”

Disappointed, he drove on. By the time they
reached the outskirts of Canton, large drops spattered the windshield. He
dropped her off at the entrance to Sheriff’s Headquarters with sheets of rain
slanting down around them. He declined her invitation to come in and wait until
the worst of it was over, preferring to drive on back to Youngstown.

Lieutenant Ed Bragg stopped chewing on his
hamburger long enough to register a frown. “Whatta ya’ mean ‘It was her idea.’
You runnin’ the show or what?”

“Look, Ed. This is a joint venture between us and
the Stark County Sheriff’s Office. No one has a monopoly on coming up with
ideas to follow. I suppose if it came to making a policy decision, my seniority
would outweigh hers. As it turned out, she came up with the idea of checking
the other states for homicides with the same M.O., and it paid off.”

Bragg grunted. “Listen. I don’t know how much
longer I’m gonna be able to hold off the media. Gayle Whats-Her-Name from
Channel Eight’s been pushin’ me for a public statement. They know somethin’s
goin’ on. Can’t we throw ‘em a bone to chomp on?”

Maharos shook his head slowly. “Christ, Ed.
Anything we say now will just open the tap and maybe wash this whole
investigation down the sewer. We’re really close. I can feel it. What’s today,
Thursday? July 2nd? Just stall for another week. Maybe we can wrap this whole
thing up by then.” Maharos glanced at his watch. “Did you want me for anything
else?”

Bragg glowered at him for a moment. “Runnin’ off
to Canton, right?”

“Uh-huh. We’ve got an appointment to question the
ex-wife of Abelson, the guy who was killed in Parkersburg.”

Bragg was getting ready to explode. “You’re goin’
back to Parkersburg?”

“No. She lives in Canton.”

Bragg waved him out and swiveled to gaze out the
window.

Maharos and Vandergrift walked up the steps of
the small red brick two-story house on Orchard Street in Canton. The name over
the doorbell read “G. Swenson.”

The woman who came to the door was a hefty blonde
who looked about forty. She wore a loose-fitting sweatshirt with hand-painted,
sequined doodles covering most of its front, and white shorts. Maharos flipped
his shield case open. Vandergrift was in her tan uniform, gun belt on her hips.

“Mrs. Swenson? We’re the ones that called about—.“

The blonde said, “Yeah. Come on in.”

She followed behind the pair and gestured to the
small living room. The officers sat on a sofa facing Mrs. Swenson.

Maharos said, “As I told you on the phone, we’d
like to ask you a few questions about your former husband, Theodore Abelson.”

“Uh-huh. And like I told you, I haven’t seen him
for over three years—ever since he moved down to West Virginia. That was just
after our divorce.”

“Did you have children?”

“Yeah. Gloria is ten and Sandy, that’s Sandra, is
eight.”

“What about child support and alimony?”

“Well the alimony stopped after I remarried. He
paid child support for the girls until he—died. He had insurance that we got
after his death. That takes care of the child support.” Her tone became
adamant. “I don’t get it. I told the West Virginia police all about it when
they came up here and questioned me right after he died. What’s all this got to
do with your investigation of his death?”

Vandergrift said, “Some new evidence has come up
that may help us get the person or persons responsible for his death. I can’t
go into detail for obvious reasons but we’re trying to find out as much as we
can about Mr. Abelson.”

“What kind of ‘obvious reasons.’ His girl
friend’s husband did it, didn’t he?”

“Well, we’re not sure of that now. What I meant
by ‘obvious reasons’ was, we want to keep this investigation as confidential as
possible. If we can keep the killer from knowing where we are in our search,
our chances of getting that person are much better. That’s why I’ll ask you not
to tell anyone about this inquiry.”

She shrugged. “Okay by me. I didn’t have a hell
of a lot of use for him after he walked out on me and the girls to go chasing
some twenty-year-old. But nobody deserves to be killed the way he was.” She
smiled. “Although to tell you the truth, there was a time when I could have
strangled him with my two hands.” She quickly covered her mouth with her hands.
“Oops. Maybe I said the wrong thing to you cops.”

Maharos said, “Don’t worry. You’re not a
suspect.”

He brought out his list of
seventh-of-the-month-homicides.

“Mrs. Swenson, do any of these names seem
familiar to you?”

She glanced through the list shaking her head.
When she came to Burnstein. She stopped. “This name seems familiar.” She
continued down the list. She pointed to that of Henry Gibson. “I heard of him,
too.”

Vandergrift said, “Did you know them? Or did your
ex-husband know them?”

She looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I don’t
know how I know them. But the names are familiar.”

“Could it be you read about them?”

She smiled as though she saw the light. “Of
course. They were killed. I read it in the papers. That’s how I knew the
names.” Her face grew serious. “Did the same guy that killed Ted killed them—?“
She stopped in mid-sentence and fixed a stare on Maharos. “Wait, Ted did know
this guy.” She pointed to Burnstein’s name. “Wasn’t he a homosexual who was
killed by his boy friend?”

Maharos nodded.

She said, “Yeah, he was killed a couple of months
before Ted died.”

Maharos said, “Actually, it was a month. But how
do you know Ted knew him?”

She dropped her head in thought for a moment.
“Well, he was late with his child support check right after the first of the
year. He was always on time, so I thought maybe the check was lost in the
Christmas mail. I phoned him to find out about it. It turned out that he had
been away for a week—went to Florida over the holidays. He said he would mail
it right away.” She stopped and reflected, “Gee, that was his last check. The
next month he was dead. Anyway, when I was on the phone with him, he told me he
had read about this Burnstein being shot. He said it like he knew him.”

Maharos said, “Did he say how he knew him?”

She stared at the carpet, thinking, then slowly
shook her head. “I don’t remember if he told me or not.”

Vandergrift leaned forward. She was barely on the
edge of the sofa. “Mrs. Swenson, this is terribly important. Please, try to
recall if your ex-husband said anything that might give a clue as to how he
knew Burnstein.”

Her brows were drawn down. “I’m trying, I’m
trying.” Finally she looked up. “I’m sorry. At the time I was only interested
in knowing if the check had been mailed. If he said anything about how he knew
Burnstein, I didn’t pay any attention to it.”

“Do you remember his words, when he mentioned the
fact that he read about Burnstein’s death?”

“Let me see if I can remember. It was something
like, ‘Hey, I read that Burnstein was killed. He was a fairy but a real nice
guy.’”

Vandergrift pressed her. “Wouldn’t you have asked
him how he knew Burnstein?”

Swenson shrugged. “Maybe I did, or maybe I didn’t
much care.”

Maharos said, “Mrs. Swenson, this may be a little
embarrassing for you to answer. But you do know that some men are both
heterosexual and homosexual. Is there any chance that your ex-husband was one
of those?”

“Ted? You gotta be kidding. He was a woman chaser
all the way. That’s why we finally split. No. He was definitely not a homo.”

“Maybe he knew Burnstein from his work. Where did
he work?”

“Ted was a car salesman. He worked for Quality
Chevrolet for a few years, for Stanley Plymouth, for Chick Hadley Toyota
Agency. That’s one thing about car salesmen. They move around a lot. For all I
know he sold the guy a car or two.”

Vandergrift said, “Burnstein was a male nurse at
Mercy Hospital. Was your ex-husband ever there as a patient?”

“No. He was healthy, Ted was. He was never sick.
He was a macho athlete. Used to play softball in a league. Every Sunday
morning. Soon as the weather got warm enough.”

“Was he ever injured playing?”

“No—I take that back. He broke his ankle sliding
into base once. I almost forgot. It’s got to be at least three, four years.”

“He must have been treated in a hospital, wasn’t
he?”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t Mercy. It was that place
over on 5th. I forget the name.”

“St. Agnes?”

“That’s the one.”

The officers looked at each other. Vandergrift’s
hands were in her lap, her fingers crossed.

St. Agnes Hospital was the oldest hospital in the
city. The central section had been built in 1915 and from the outside was a
dull gray granite. On either side, wings of a lighter hue had been added giving
the entire complex the appearance of a bird in flight. Inside, the wood and
vinyl floors gleamed and the place smelled of lemon cleanser rather than the
medicinal odor of a hospital.

The volunteer at the reception desk directed
Maharos and Vandergrift to the office of the Executive Director.

Mother Superior Agatha Cavanaugh sat erect at her
desk in her white robe, a large cross suspended from her neck. She peered
through wire-rimmed glasses as Maharos explained.

“First, could you check your records and see if
you had a nurse here named Frank Burnstein? It would have been about three or
four years ago.”

She nodded slightly. “I don’t have to check. I
remember Mr. Burnstein. We don’t have that many male nurses. He worked here for
about two years. I can get the exact years for you, if you wish.”

Maharos said, “Yes, that would be helpful.”

She started to pick up the phone on her desk,
then waited with her hand poised over the telephone. “Was there some other
information you wanted?”

He took from his jacket pocket the list of names
of the seven homicides they had connected with the serial killer, the six men
and a woman. “Yes, we’d like to check your patient records to see if any of
these people were patients here. If they were, we’d also like to know when they
were here.”

She took her hand off the phone and a faint smile
touched her lips. “You know, of course, that any information about our patients
is privileged. I couldn’t give it to you without a release from a responsible
family member and the attending doctor in each case.”

Maharos nodded. He expected a roadblock. He also
knew that today was July second. In less than a week someone would be taking an
unscheduled trip down I 77 for an appointment with a pair of bullet holes in
the back. “Yes, I know that, Mother Agatha. However, this is a homicide
investigation. Actually, all of the names I’ve given you are homicide victims.
I’m sure we could get permission from their families. We could also get a court
order, if necessary. But we’re working under some time constraints here. I was
hoping that we could save time and a lot of effort if we could just get a
simple yes or no answer to whether they have been patients in St. Agnes, and
when. We can take it from there. We’re not interested in their medical
problem.”

She tapped her chin with an index finger then
toyed with the cross at her chest for ten seconds. Finally, she picked up the
phone.

Maharos and Vandergrift sat in the small anteroom
outside Mother Agatha’s office for twenty minutes. They sipped coffee out of
Styrofoam cups until a stocky woman in her mid-forties came in carrying a sheet
of paper. She knocked on the door to Mother Agatha’s office and went inside. A
minute later, she came to the door and asked the officers to step inside.

Mother Agatha said, “This is Mary O’Brien, our
Record Room Librarian. Here’s the information I believe you asked for.”

Maharos and Vandergrift read the neat handwritten
notations opposite each of the names on the list they had given the director.
Three had been patients in St. Agnes: Marlon Graves, Henry Gibson and Theodore
Abelson. The dates during which all of them had been in the hospital,
overlapped. Opposite the other four names, she had written, “No.” Underneath
the list of names she had written the dates of employment for Frank Burnstein.
He had been a nurse at St. Agnes during the time the three had been patients
there.

They stared at the list and a wave of exaltation
went through Maharos. They had found the key. They were almost home free.
Almost.

Mother Agatha moved some papers around on her
desk and cleared her throat. Their time was up. She said, “Is that all?”

Maharos said, “It’s a big help, thank you, Ms.
O’Brien. I wonder if you could tell us just one other thing—well, three things:
First, were the three men that you’ve marked as being patients here, all in the
same room? Second, was Mr. Burnstein one of their nurses? Third, who was the
doctor in charge of the three?”

Mother Agatha looked down at her desk and shook
her head, “Now, really. You’re taking advantage of my good nature. I give an
inch and you take—.“ She turned to the Record Room Librarian.

“Mary, would you take these people back to the
Record Room and find out what they just asked me? They are not to see the
patient’s records, is that clear.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Vandergrift said, “Thank you, Mother. You’ve been
a tremendous help.”

Mother Agatha nodded as Vandergrift and Maharos
filed out after the librarian.

The Record Room was in an adjacent corridor. It was
a moderate-sized, windowless room. All the walls were fitted with shelves on
which were manila folders containing patient records. Mary O’Brien’s desktop
was covered with stacks of charts. A microfilm reader stood on a long writing
table in the center of the room. A green six-drawer file cabinet stood next to
the librarian’s desk.

O’Brien took three, oblong microfiche films that
had been on her desk and placed them next to the reader. She asked the officers
to take seats opposite her, across the table. It was obvious that she was
positioning them so that they could not see the image projected on the reader
screen. Vandergrift glanced sideways at Maharos and smiled faintly. Maharos
thought the precautions were ridiculous. Even if they could have read what was
in the record, they would probably not understand the terminology.

She examined each one carefully in the viewer,
moving the film from side-to-side and up and down. She made notes on a blank
piece of paper at her side. When she had finished, she handed the paper to
Maharos. “As you see, these three men were all in 320-West.

“Each of them had a different doctor in charge of
his case. I’ve written the names of their attending doctors down here.” She
pointed to the sheet. “I checked the Nurses’ Daily Progress Notes to see if I
could tell whether or not Mr. Burnstein had signed any, but I couldn’t be sure
of the nurse’s signatures. I’ll take you over to the Head Nurse’s office. Maybe
she can check her records to see what ward he served on.”

Maharos and Vandergrift followed the librarian to
an office across the hall where a gray-haired nurse in a crisply starched white
uniform sat at a desk. A plastic nametag on her collar identified her as Helen
McNamara, R.N.. She listened while O’Brien explained what information they
wanted. When she had finished, the nurse shook her head. “Our employment
records only indicate the days on and off duty for each nurse. They wouldn’t
tell us which ward that nurse was working on. Such a record would be hard to
keep because, except for the head nurse on each ward, we move the nurses from
one ward to another from day-to-day depending on the workload. Frank Burnstein
was never a ward head nurse. The only way we could tell which nurse was on duty
for any particular patient would be to look in the patient’s record and see who
signed the Nurse’s Progress Notes.”

O’Brien explained that she had tried but was
unable to get that information.

The nurse said, “What room were these patients
in, Mary?”

“Three-twenty West.”

McNamara nodded, “Frank was on 3-West at least
part of the time he was here. I’m not certain if the dates were the same as
those of the patients you’re interested in, but that’s the best I can do.”

As they walked through the lobby on their way
out, Vandergrift glanced at Maharos. He walked slowly, thinking.

She said, “I’ll bet you’re thinking the same
thing I am. We know there’s a connection between four of the men that are dead:
the three patients and the nurse. But where does that lead us. Obviously, none
of them is the killer. The three that were patients didn’t even have the same
doctor.”

Maharos suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute. I’d
like to take a look at the room they were in. Maybe we’ll get some ideas
there.”

The woman at the reception desk was talking on
the phone as they passed on their way to the elevator. Each of the other
visitors in the elevator held a blue card that read “Visitor’s Pass.” A
white-coated doctor stood alongside in the elevator car, his hands clasped
behind him, staring at the roof.

Vandergrift whispered to Maharos, “Got a spare
stethoscope in your pocket?”

He whispered back, “Don’t need one. I can hear
your heart beat from here.”

She stepped on his foot.

They got off on the third floor and followed a
sign indicating the direction of Rooms 300-320. As they passed the rooms, they
peered in. Most were occupied by two patients. A few contained a single bed.

Room 320 was at the end of the corridor away from
the nurses’ desk. It was larger than the others. From the doorway they saw that
it contained four beds, a patient occupying each. If this was a four-bed room
and if three of the victims: Gibson, Graves and Abelson were patients in that
room, who occupied the fourth bed?

Maharos said, “You see what I see?”

“Uh-huh. Sure would like to talk to whoever was
in that fourth bed three years ago. I’m afraid it’s going to take an edict from
the Pope to find out who it was.”

“Probably. Let’s give it a try. We’ll start up
here and work down.”

They stopped at the nurses’ desk. Vandergrift was
in uniform, she did the talking. None of the nurses on duty had been working at
St. Agnes longer than two years. Maharos knew there was no point wasting time
trying to get the information from them.

Back on the first floor, they walked into the
Record Room. O’Brien was surprised to see them. “I thought you had left,” she
said.

Maharos said, “We thought of something else to
ask you: How can we find out the name of the fourth patient in 320-West at the
time Graves, Gibson and Abelson were there?”

She stood shaking her head while he was talking.
“I can’t give you any information without Mother Agatha’s permission.” She was
almost in tears.

Vandergrift said, “Ms. O’Brien, we certainly
don’t want to get you into any trouble. But this is a murder investigation, and
I’m sure you can appreciate the importance and the urgency of collecting all
the information we can.”

O’Brien’s face was crimson. “Please, officer. I
can’t. Believe me, I can’t.” She buried her face in her hands.

Maharos sighed. “Okay. Let’s talk to Mother God.”

Mother Agatha’s office door was open. When the
pair walked in her thin lips compressed into a thinner line. Vandergrift
fingered the handcuffs on her belt as they walked to her desk. If Mother Agatha
was in any way intimidated, she did a great job of bluffing. She pointed a bony
finger at them. “If you don’t leave this minute, I’m calling the police.”

Maharos said, “What do you think we are? Keystone
Kops?”

“Why don’t you two go away and leave us alone.”

“Mother, there’s someone running around killing
people. Not only is that a violation of the law, if you’ll look in that black
book on your desk you’ll find it’s also a violation of one of the commandments.
I think it’s number six.”

“Detective Whatever-Your-Name-Is, I don’t need
any of your sarcastic remarks.”

“How can I get through to you that you hold the
key to our finding out who killed several people connected with this hospital?
Now, please, it’s not asking too much for you to try to find out—and it does
not in any way, shape, or form violate your patients’ right to privacy.”

Mother Agatha breathed in and out rapidly. Some
of the fire went out of her eyes. “What is it you want to know now?”

“Three men who were patients in Room 320-West
three and one-half years ago, have been murdered in the past year. In addition,
a male nurse who probably was on duty on that ward at the same time, was also
murdered. As you know, that room is a four-bed ward. We would like to find out
who occupied the fourth bed at the time all these people were here.”

“You think he was the one who killed the others?”

“We won’t know until we find him and question
him.”

Mother Agatha adjusted her glasses. “Well, why
didn’t you say so in the first place.” She was getting to play detective and
looked as though she was going to enjoy it.

Mother Agatha took off her glasses and polished
them with a tissue. “Let me see. Mary, what would be the best way of finding
out who occupied 320-West during the dates we’re interested in? You don’t keep
any such record, do you?”

“No, Mother. I do have a list of all the admissions
and discharges. The list shows what room they occupied at the time they were
discharged from the hospital.”

“All right. Let’s start with the admission and
discharge dates of the three patients who we know occupied that room. Let’s
see, that was Gibson, Abelson and Graves? You have that on the microfiche of
each of these patients, right?”