Barry Friedman - Dead End (17 page)

Maharos said, “Have you been able to contact
Hamberger’s widow.”

“Not yet. I did check with Mercy Hospital.
Remember, that’s where Burnstein was working when he was killed. Thought maybe
there might be a connection between him and Hamberger or Horner there. Neither
one has ever been a patient at Mercy.”

Maharos was pleased that Vandergrift was using
her initiative, looking into angles that hadn’t occurred to him. He reminded
himself that it was her idea that had led to the discovery of Abelson as one of
the victims. Not only did it complete the chain of murders, but by linking him
with Burnstein and St. Agnes Hospital, it provided a major breakthrough in
their investigation.

Vandergrift said, “One more thing. We got a
positive on the fiber analysis.”

“Fibers?”

So much had taken place in the investigation
that, for the moment, he had forgotten about the Navy blue fibers that had been
found on Hamberger’s overalls and in the floor carpet of George Horner’s car.
Vandergrift was telling him that the Crime Lab had run a comparison and found
the fibers to be identical. They probably had come from the same source, a
sweater worn by the killer.

When he hung up the telephone, he leaned back in
his chair, folded his hands behind his head and closed his eyes to think. The
St. Agnes lead had seemed so promising a few hours ago. Now all the lanes had ended
in brick walls.

The phone on his desk buzzed. “Call for you on
five.”

“
Pohs ee-stek
, Alexander,” the pleasant
voice said. Only one person he knew greeted him in Greek.

“
Kah-lah ehf-khah
, Markos Sussman. What’s
new in the head-shrinking business?”

Dr. Marc Sussman said, “I have something for you.
Not sure what you can do with it but, remember, I told you I’d check about some
patients I had seen who had a compulsive-obsession with the number seven?”

“Heptamania?”

“Yeah. Well, I went back over my old records and
came up with three names: Ronald Baker, he’d be 25 now. Saw him in consultation
at Massillon State Hospital six years ago.

“Monica Dudek, 33 years old. I saw her as an
office patient five years ago.

“Ephraim Rankins, now he’d be 32 years old. Saw
him in consultation at Lima State Hospital six years ago.”

Maharos said, “Do you have addresses for them?”

“Only for Monica Dudek. Want it?”

“Hold on to it, but I don’t think it’s worthwhile
wasting time following it up. Our killer is not a woman.”

“I agree. Baker is still in Massillon State
Hospital. He had a number of psychogenic problems; heptamania was the least of
them. The most debilitating was mental retardation. He was, what we used to
call, an idiot savant. He had been institutionalized since he was fifteen.
Could do all sorts of arithmetic tricks—multiply two columns of seven figures
in his head, tell you what day of the week any date in history fell on, things
like that. But he couldn’t dress himself without help.”

“Does he get out of the hospital?”

“Only with supervision. His mother, or some
relative takes him out for dinner once in awhile.”

“Tell me about the other one. What’s his name,
Rankins?”

“Okay. I was only teasing you with the other two.
This one may be promising. He was in Oakwood Forensic Center for eight years.
Diagnosed as a schizophrenic.”

Maharos said, “Only it wasn’t called Oakwood
then. It was called Lima State Hospital For the Criminally Insane. You want me
to ask you why he was in Lima State, right?”

Sussman chuckled. “Okay, game’s over. He was in
for suspected homicide. Supposedly killed his landlady. He passed M’Naughton,
incompetent to stand trial. By the time he got out eight years later the D.A.
figured he had no case.”

“Sussman, you’re a prick.”
 

He heard Sussman chuckle. “Wait, Al. Don’t hang
up on me, there’s more. This guy has a history going back to childhood. Ever
hear of Bellefountain?”

“No.”

“It’s a residential therapy center for disturbed
children in Cleveland. Anyway, Rankins—or Rankin, as he was known then, was
placed by the Akron Child Care Agency in Bellefountain for a year or so. He was
there because his foster father had been killed in a farm accident while the
two of them were working together. His foster mother suspected that Rankins was
somehow responsible although charges were never brought. At Bellefountain he
had a battery of tests and was diagnosed as having superior intelligence but he
was borderline schizophrenic.”

Maharos digested the information. So we’re
dealing with a kook. “How old was he then?”

“Seventeen. He was eighteen when he got out. They
treated him with some medication that seemed to bring him back to the real
world. Trouble is, unless he continued to take it, he’d be back in la-la-land.”

“How long did they continue to follow him?”

Sussman said, “He was lost to follow-up after
they sent him back to Akron. The next time he surfaced was when he was admitted
to Lima State. That’s when I first saw him. His schizophrenia was now
full-blown. It was only a one-shot consultation. I recommended that he be given
one of the antipsychotic drugs. What happened after that I don’t know. You can
probably get more information from the people at Lima State.”

“Any more you can give me about the form his
schizophrenia took?”

He heard Sussman rustling some papers. “According
to my notes, he got messages right out of the Book of Numbers.”

“You mean the Old Testament?”

“Uh-huh. He was Ephraim, leader of the seventh
tribe of Israelites.”

Maharos shook his head slowly. “And I’m Moses,
King of the Jews.”

Sussman laughed. “I’m disappointed. I always
thought you could walk on water.”

Maharos said, “Thanks for the information
Marc—even if I had to pass one of your psycho-stupid tests to get it.”

He was about to hang up, had a thought. “Oh, one
other thing. You said he was known as Rankin when he was in that place in
Cleveland.”

“Yeah. At Bellefountain his name was Edwin
Rankin. By the time he got to Lima State, it had been changed to Ephraim
Rankins.”

“So what’s the big deal? Most of the guys in
lock-ups have a string of AKAs that stretch a city block.”

Sussman’s clucking in the mouthpiece stung his
ear. “Al, you’re not paying attention. Heptamania. Each name had to have seven
letters.”

Maharos was on the line to Vandergrift as soon as
he finished talking to Sussman. In his gut he felt that this was going to lead
him to the killer, but his experience told him that he was a long way from the
solution. He had trouble trying to sound calm when he told her what he had
learned; she made no effort to hide her excitement.

Vandergrift said, “What’s the next step?”

“Let’s start with Horner’s office, see what we
can find out. How long will it take you to get here?”

“I’m on my way.”

Nancy Taylor, George Horner’s former secretary,
was putting the cover on her typewriter as Maharos and Vandergrift walked into
her small cubicle at quarter-past five.

A faint smile on her lips. “Well, Detective, more
questions for me?” A glance at Vandergrift, in uniform. “I see you brought
reinforcements.”

Maharos remained deadpan. “We’re checking to see
if a certain party had been one of Mr. Horner’s clients.”

Nancy Taylor hesitated. “I’d better check with
Mr. Bost before I give out any information.” She got up and walked out without
offering the officers a seat.

A minute later she returned. “Mr. Bost would like
to see you in his office.” She led the way down the corridor to Harrison Bost’s
office. He got up and, smiling, greeted the pair. Maharos introduced
Vandergrift. Nancy Taylor remained standing at the office door.

Bost said, “I understand you wanted to know about
one of George’s clients. Some new developments in the case?”

Maharos said, “Possibly. Mr. Bost, did Mr. Horner
have a client named Ephraim Rankins?” He dropped on Bost’s desk a faxed photo
he had received from Oakwood Forensic Center. It was front and profile mug shot
of Rankins.

Bost glanced at the photo. “Nancy, could you
check the files?” He turned to Maharos. “Is this the man?”

“Yes.”

Taylor went back to her office and Bost gestured
the officers to a pair of chairs. “I had rather expected I might be hearing
from you. I heard something on a news program about a serial killer. Do you
think this could have been George’s murderer?”

Maharos said, “We’ve made some progress, but I’d
rather not say anything more specific as yet. I’m sorry the news leaked. It’s
going to make our job more difficult.”

Bost nodded gravely. “I understand.”

Taylor returned with a manila file folder and
placed it on Bost’s desk. The attorney flipped it open. “Ephraim Rankins?”

Maharos’ pulse raced. The pieces were coming
together. He nodded. Bost pushed the file across his desk. “Read it for
yourself.”

Maharos and Vandergrift sat side-by-side, heads
together as they opened the file. Vandergrift touched an index finger to a line
on the first page and turned to face Maharos. He read, “Employer, Noah
Hamberger.” Another piece fell into place.

But why?

That would wait. For now, he knew whom he had to
find.

Maharos said, “Could you have this file copied
for us? And would you have a current address for him?”

Bost looked up at Taylor, questioning. She shook
her head. “Only the one in the file.”

Vandergrift said, “That’s New Philadelphia. It’s
three years old. Any way of knowing if he’s still there?”

The secretary flipped to the back of the file.
“No, the last contact we had was three years ago.” She removed a paper from the
folder, read it silently for a moment, shook her head slowly and handed it to
Maharos. It was a letter, written on lined paper, a page torn from a notebook.
The writing was uneven, some words small, some large, some in script, others
printed in block letters.

GEORGE HORNER Why don’t YOU answer my calls??
WHAT happened to the money YOU were supposed to get for ME. EPHRAIM RANKINS

Maharos said, “Did Horner answer him?”

Taylor took the last letter out of the file.
Stapled to it was an envelope bearing the letterhead of the law firm. The
envelope was addressed to Rankins at the New Philadelphia address. Stamped
across the front of the envelope was, “Return to sender. No forwarding
address.” Horner’s letter, in reply to Rankins’ note, was a three-paragraph
explanation and apology saying that Horner had tried to return all of his
calls. He said it was possible that he hadn’t received a message that Rankins
had called because a check of his logbook showed that every call had been
returned, although not always the same day it was received. The log also showed
that on two occasions, when Horner tried to return Rankins’ calls, there had
been no answer.

Vandergrift said, “So he had already left New
Philadelphia when Mr. Horner wrote this letter.”

Taylor said, “Rankins was getting checks from the
ICO. They may have a more recent address.”

“ICO?”

“Industrial Commission of Ohio. I can call their
Columbus office for you and find out, if you’d like.”

“Please.”

Taylor went back to her office with the file.
Maharos noticed how her attitude had changed. Now that she was no longer a
suspect, she was not on the defensive. He said, “I think we’re getting pretty
close, Mr. Bost. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this
information is, and how important it is…”

Bost held up a hand. “Of course. I won’t say a
word about it. And I’ll be sure that Nancy keeps quiet as well.” He smiled
broadly. “I must congratulate both of you. When I hadn’t heard anything, I had
assumed you had given up on the case. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m
impressed. I wouldn’t want to be a criminal and have you two dogging me.”

Maharos said, “Thanks for your confidence, but we
don’t have the killer yet.”

Nancy Taylor came back shaking her head. “Closed.
Half-past five on a Friday—and a holiday weekend at that. You know government
offices…”

Bost said, “They won’t be open until Monday.
Guess you’ll have to wait, or try to find his present whereabouts from some
other source.”

Maharos said, “We’ll work it out. Thanks for your
help.” He took the photocopy of Rankins file that Taylor had brought in, wrote
out a receipt and placed it on Bost’s desk.

*
  
*
   
*

Lieutenant Ed Bragg was getting to leave for the
day. His eyebrows shot up as he glanced through the glass wall panel separating
his office from the squad room. Maharos and Vandergrift had just walked in.
Bragg beckoned them to his office and leaned back in his swivel chair, a corner
of his mouth turned up in an attempt at a smile.

Maharos introduced Vandergrift. She grasped his
big hand firmly.

“So you’re Al’s partner in this case.

Maharos was thankful the lieutenant avoided
making a sexist remark, although he had warned Vandergrift of Bragg’s bias.

“Yes sir.” Vandergrift stood rigidly at
attention. Unsmiling. Maharos had trouble suppressing a grin. She was showing
the son of a bitch she was just as much a grunt as any of his male underlings.

“Sit down, take it easy. I don’t know what Al
told you about me, but I haven’t bitten a deputy sheriff yet.” He chuckled.
Vandergrift smiled weakly, said nothing.

Maharos said, “We’ve got a pretty good line on
our suspect, Ed.” He told Bragg about their visit to Horner’s office.

“Sounds good. I think it’s time we get you some
help. I’ll check around see who’s available.”

Maharos tapped the cover of Rankins’ file. “We
picked up a copy of his record from the lawyers’ office. We’re going over it
now. See if we can get a lead as to where he might be. We’re going to have to
work fast. The news hawks are already on our backs. The last thing we need
right now is more sweaty bodies to add to the scenery.”

Bragg shrugged. “Okay. I’ll have someone for you
by tomorrow. Just don’t get yourselves in a jurisdictional bind in case the guy
turns out to be out of bounds for us.” He pushed himself up from his chair and
brushed lint off his trousers. “Look, I gotta run. Glad to have met you,
Sheriff. You got one of my best men here.” He winked at Vandergrift. “Don’t let
him get hurt.”

They followed Bragg out of his office. Maharos
looked at Vandergrift and shrugged a shoulder at the lieutenant’s last remark.
She raised an eyebrow in response and silently mouthed.

“ ‘Don’t let him get hurt’.”

Detective Sean Norris and the elderly couple he
was interviewing, were the only other occupants of the squad room as
Vandergrift sat head-to-head with Maharos at his desk They were reading copies
of letters and Worker’s Compensation forms in Rankins’ file. Vandergrift made
notes in a spiral notebook.

Maharos said, “Looks like Noah Hamberger was
fighting to deny Rankins’ claim of back injury. Says there were no witnesses.”

“Yeah, but this sheet shows that the Industrial
Commission Appeals Court ruled in favor of Rankins.”

“Uh-huh. Here’s the initial report of the doctor
who operated on him. Russell Marino. He’s in Canton. Know him?”

“Not personally, but he’s well-known in the city.
Orthopaedic surgeon, I believe.”

Maharos read, “Here’s the St. Agnes Hospital
admission note. ‘Patient was admitted with a history of industrial back injury.
CAT scan confirmed clinical impression of herniated disk between L4 and L5 on
the right. Patient admitted for laminectomy.’ I guess that means taking out the
ruptured disk.”

Vandergrift leafed through a sheaf of papers.
“Here are the bills: Dr. Theodore Long, New Philadelphia; Dr. Russell Marino,
Canton; St. Agnes Radiology Group; St. Agnes Anesthesia Group; Dr. Harold
Schneider, Canton; St. Agnes Hospital. Boy! He accumulated a mess of bills.”

“It don’t come cheap.”

They glanced at copies of checks from the
Industrial Commission that had been sent to Rankins. The last was dated three
years before.

It was seven-thirty when Maharos closed the file
folder, blew out a deep breath. “Not much help there. I’ll get Records to see
what we can get from the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. Meantime, why don’t you try
to get in touch with Dr. Marino? Maybe he’s been seeing the guy for check-ups
and has a recent address for him. Use my phone; I’ll use the one at the next
desk.

She placed a call to the number listed on
Marino’s stationery. The exchange operator that took the call told her that the
office was closed until Monday. “Dr. Marino is not on call, but Dr. Lathrop,
his associate, is taking calls. I’ll connect you with him.”

She opened her mouth to protest but the exchange
operator was already patching her through to another number. A child’s voice
answered. “My Daddy and Mommy are eating dinner. Is this a ‘mergency?”

“Let me speak to your Daddy.”

She heard the child calling loudly and a few
moments later a man’s voice answered. “This is Dr. Lathrop.”

She introduced herself and told him she was
trying to reach Dr. Marino.

“Dr. Marino is out of town for the holiday
weekend. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Maybe you can. I’m trying to get the current
address of a patient Dr. Marino operated on at St. Agnes’ about three years
ago.”

“Three years ago! This is the emergency?”

“Look, Doctor, I can’t explain but this is
urgent. Do you remember one of his patients named Ephraim Rankins?”

Curtly, “No.”

“Is there someone who can look up Rankins’ record
and see what his address is?”

“You mean now? This evening?” More annoyed.

“Yes.”

“Who did you say you are?”

“Deputy Sheriff Vandergrift, Stark Count…”

“I’ll call you back. What’s your number?”

“I’m calling from the Youngstown Police
Headquarters. The number here is…”

“Youngstown! That’s Mahoning County. I thought
you said you were a Stark County sheriff.”

“Listen, Doctor, I’m investigating a homicide, a
murder case.”

“I know what a homicide is, Sheriff.” A loud
sigh. “All right, give me your number there.”

She hung up and sat staring at the phone, her jaw
set. Maharos was watching, amused. “He give you a hard time?”

She nodded. “I caught him at dinner. Maybe his
steak was tough. Is your BMV trace going through?”

“Yeah. They’ve got a skeleton staff on. Probably
won’t get back to me for at least a few hours.”

Five minutes later, Maharos’ phone buzzed. He
listened and passed the phone to Vandergrift. The caller was a woman who
identified herself as a secretary in Drs. Marino and Lathrop’s office. She said
that Dr. Lathrop had been called to the hospital for an emergency, but had
instructed her to meet Vandergrift at the doctors’ office in Canton. She would
try to get the information on Rankins.

Daylight was rapidly fading at 8:45 p.m. when
Vandergrift pulled up to the parking lot of a one-story office building, one
block from St. Agnes Hospital in Canton. A directory on the wall outside the
building listed Dr. Russell Marino and Dr. Edward Lathrop, orthopaedic surgery,
Suite 112. The lobby door was locked so she pushed the bell button and peered,
shielding her eyes, through the glass door. She heard the click of a woman’s
high heels on the vinyl floor, and a moment later a young red-haired woman was
at the door. She appraised Vandergrift, looked up and down at her brown uniform
before unlocking the door.