Barry Friedman - Dead End (22 page)

Ephraim Rankins was still humming as he turned
the van into Bridges Street. He passed Beech, Cedar and Daphne. As he approached
Fern, the next cross street, he saw against the darkening sky, the profile of
the overhead light rack on the car parked in front of his apartment building.
The danger flag in his head shot out like a banner in a high wind. His foot
gentled down on the brake and he turned right on Fern, away from the apartment
building.

He drove for a little more than a block, then
stopped at the curb. He was breathing rapidly. So close to his goal now.
Couldn’t take a chance on being stopped. Just one more day, that’s all he
needed.

For ten minutes he drove around aimlessly, then
turned back and passed the apartment building. The patrol car was still there.
He kept going.

*
  
*
  
*

In Rankins’ apartment, Matt Clemens said, “Want
to toss the place?”

Maharos shook his head. “Not without a warrant.”

Warner said, “You shouldn’t even be in here.”

Clemens said, “Hey, we’re just checking out a
report that there was a suspected break-in. We’re just protecting our citizens,
for Christ sake.”

“Some protection.”

Warner stood by in Rankins’ apartment while
Maharos and Vandergrift looked into each of the rooms, carefully avoiding
touching anything. Clemens remained in the living room, his legs apart, thumbs
hooked into his gun belt.

Warner said, “What the hell are you looking for?
You can see he’s not here.”

No one answered him.

The apartment was uncluttered and spotlessly
clean. The living room was furnished with a maple couch upholstered in a plaid
tweed material. Early Sears. In addition, there were two matching chairs and a small
drop-leaf table. Maharos was struck by the barrenness of the room. He looked
for newspapers, magazines or books. There were none. There were no pictures on
the walls, no carpeting on the floor.

From a small vestibule off the living room, doors
led to a small bathroom and the bedroom. In the vestibule there was a linen
closet, the lower half of which was taken up by a small washer-drier
combination. Maharos pointed to the unit. “Does this come with the apartment or
do the tenants buy it?”

Warner said, “The previous tenant put it in and
left it when he moved out. I think he sold that, and all the other furniture in
the apartment to Wiliams.”

Vandergrift said, “Did Wiliams add any
furnishings?”

Warner slowly scanned the rooms, shook his head.
“I think it was all here when he moved in.”

The linen closet shelves held two neatly folded
sheets, a pillowcase and two towels. Nothing else. An ironing board was folded
into a wall of the closet, but there was no iron in sight. Apparently, Rankins
simply folded his laundry without pressing anything.

From the small bedroom a single window covered by
white lace curtains looked out to an alley separating the building they were in
from one of similar shape and size next to it. The furnishings were as stark as
those of the rest of the apartment. They consisted of a maple bed, a dresser
and a straight-back chair next to the bed. On the seat of the chair was a
ghetto blaster, a large radio-tape recorder with amplifiers at either end. A
cardboard carton under the chair was filled with tapes, each in a plastic
container. Maharos used his foot to move the chair so they could get a better
view of the tapes. Most were unlabeled, but on a few of the plastic containers,
labels had been pasted.

Vandergrift bent down and turned her head
sideways to read the crude hand lettering of the labels. She read off several:
“’Kings,’ ‘Psalms’, ‘Proverbs’…”

Maharos said, “I haven’t been to Sunday School in
over a week, but aren’t those the books of the bible?”

Vandergrift said, “Uh-huh. Looks like our boy’s
into religion.”

“Or religion is into him.”

A closet in the bedroom held a dark blue suit and
three pairs of jeans. Two black ties hung on a tie rack fastened to the closet
door. On the floor of the closet were a pair of dark blue Adidas gym shoes and
a pair of black shoes shined to a high gloss. Vandergrift pointed to the
clothing. “Looks like he either goes to work or to funerals.”

Maharos said, “Funerals are his work.”

A high shelf in the closet held a small pile of
what appeared to be dirty laundry. Maharos stood on his toes and peered into
the back of the shelf. Although there was no light in the closet, he made out a
dark blue wool sweater. He resisted the temptation to pluck a few strands of
the wool and run a test of them against the fibers found at the scenes of
several of the murders. He was almost certain they would match, but he was too
good a cop to risk blowing his case by obtaining evidence in this manner. He’d
have to come back with a warrant.

As he started to follow Warner out of the
bedroom, from the corner of his eye he saw Vandergrift bend, reaching toward
one of the Adidas shoes on the closet floor. He half-turned and shook his head
vigorously. She got the message, straightened up and followed him back into the
living room. She said, “Mind if I use the bathroom for a minute.”

Warner said, “Go ahead.”

She closed the bathroom door and scrutinized the
room. Two towels hung on a wall bar. She pushed aside the shower curtain over
the bathtub. A cake of soap sat in a soap dish. Nothing unusual. The medicine
cabinet held a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste and a small
bottle of aspirin. On the back of the top shelf, a brown medicine bottle was
filled to the top with tablets. The label was that of Young’s Pharmacy in Akron.
The typed instructions read, “Take one tablet twice a day.” The lower left hand
portion of the label identified the medication as Lithium Carbonate, 300 mg.
Typed in the opposite corner was the expiration date, two years ago.
Vandergrift vaguely recalled that lithium was used to treat certain forms of
psychosis. She didn’t need the pharmacopeia to know that the medicine had no
physiologic effect on the brain while it sat on the medicine cabinet shelf. She
flushed the toilet and walked back to the living room.

Warner was nervously glancing from one of the
officers to the other. “Come on. You’ve seen all you need to. Let’s get out of
here.”

Maharos was in the kitchen. He called to
Vandergrift and when she walked over to where he stood, he pointed to the calendar
hanging on the wall. July 7th was enclosed in a large circle of red crayon.

They assembled at 7 a.m., July 7th, in a room in
Stark County Sheriff’s Headquarters. Two rows of folding chairs faced a chart
on an easel.

Sheriff Sherman McAllister’s chair was next to
the easel. A small wooden desk in front of him was clear except for a chipped
coffee cup on which in large letters was printed, “I’m The Chief—That’s Why.”
He nodded to Maharos seated in the front row facing him.

“Maharos, you’ve been on top of this case longer
than the rest of us. This is a cooperative operation. Why don’t you make the
assignments?”

Maharos stood alongside the chart, on the side
opposite McAllister. Seated facing him were: Vandergrift; Ike Show; Les
Cassidy, a Youngstown patrol officer on temporary assignment to Maharos’
investigation; Detective Lon Kinkaid from the Canton P.D.; and two uniformed
sheriff deputies of the Stark County unit.

Maharos spent fifteen minutes reviewing the
homicides and the evidence that Rankins was the probable murderer. Although
most of those present in the room were familiar with the case, he felt it would
do no harm to refresh their memories. Kinkaid and the Stark County deputies
were hearing some of the details for the first time. They sat with pads on
their knees making notes as Maharos spoke. “We’ve got a lot of manpower for
this operation. In addition to those of us here, Officer Matt Clemens and
another uniform of the Massillon P.D. have been staked out at Rankins’ place
since last night.”

Detectives Frank Fiala and Sam Emerson of the
Youngstown squad had spent the previous day canvassing labs in a search for
Rankins. When Maharos reported that he was located in Massillon, Bragg recalled
the two detectives to their regular duties.

To the unit assembled in the Stark County
Sheriff’s Office, Maharos said, “We’re using a lot of people, but we expect
this will be a short operation.”

Kinkaid said, “How short?”

“Based on his pattern, one day. Today.”

Les Cassidy said, “He never showed at his place
last night, did he?”

“No.”

“Do we know what he’s driving?”

“No. His employer says he doesn’t have a car.
There’s no current BMV registration listed under Wiliams or Rankins. We’ve
tried some variations of the names. No luck.”

Maharos looked around the room. There were no
more questions. He pointed to the chart. “Show, you’ll be on the stake-out at
Rankins’ apartment in Massillon along with Clemens and the other officer. The
three of you can work out how you want to do it, but I want at least two of you
there all the time.”

Show said, “In the apartment?”

“We got a court order to get inside, so two of
you will be in Rankins’ apartment. The other member of the surveillance unit
will be downstairs in Mr. Warner’s apartment. He’s the building owner. He’s
moved out for the next forty-eight hours to let us use the place. We’ve also
told the other tenants to stay out of their apartments until this operation is
over. You’ll be in radio communication with each other, of course. Work out a
schedule so one at a time can get relief. Here are the directions to the
apartment building. You’ll find Clemens and his partner there. One of them is
in Rankins’ apartment the other is in Warner’s place now.” He handed him a
piece of paper.

Show leaned back in his chair, the corner of his
mouth turned up. “Think the three of us are enough to handle him?”

Maharos glared at Show’s face. For ten seconds he
did not speak. Then, quietly, “We don’t need that. If you want out, say so
now.” He looked steadily at Show in silence for another ten seconds. Show said
nothing. His eyes dropped to the floor. The smirk stayed on his lips.

Maharos returned to the chart. “Detective Kinkaid
will be in Dr. Marino’s home. Mrs. Marino has agreed to remain in the house all
day with the children. Lon, your watch will last until about six when Dr.
Marino gets home. Deputy Vandergrift and I will be with him all day, while he’s
making rounds at the hospital and seeing patients in his office. We’ll stick
with him after he gets home so you’ll be relieved.”

McAllister said, “So, Dr. Marino is business as
usual?”

Maharos nodded. “He insisted on it. In a way, it
may turn out best for us.”

“You mean he’s bait?”

Maharos half-smiled. “I wouldn’t have put it
quite like that. Vandergrift and I will be staying close by the doctor, but in
the background. We don’t want to spook Rankins, but we do want him to make his
move. That’s the only way we’re going to force him out in the open where we can
get him.”

“Assuming Dr. Marino is the target.”

“Yes sir, that’s our assumption.”

Maharos went back to the planning board. “The two
deputy sheriffs will be in a surveillance van parked in the driveway of the
house next door to Dr. Marino’s home. We found a place there where they’ll have
a good view of both the front and back of the house.

McAllister said, “What about the people that live
next door. Is the surveillance going to bother them?”

“No. They’re out of town. In fact, they asked the
Marinos to keep an eye on their place.”

Maharos pointed to Les Cassidy’s name on the chart.
“Cassidy, you’re going to be our communications coordinator. You’ll be here in
the Sheriff’s Office. We’ve got two lines cleared so you’ll be in contact with
the unit in Massillon, with Detective Kinkaid and the deputies in the van.
Vandergrift and I will be in touch with you at regular intervals until this is
over. We’re on beepers so you can reach us whenever you need to.” He paused and
walked to the center of the room. “You’re all experienced in this sort of
thing. I know it’s him against all of us, but he’s smart and he’s dangerous.
The fact that he didn’t show at his place last night probably means he knows
we’re looking for him. Maybe he’s running now and won’t try for another victim.
But don’t count on it. Be careful.”

He stood waiting for questions, then signaled
that the meeting was over.

*
  
*
  
*

The Doctor’s Lounge in the surgery suite at St.
Agnes Hospital was a room about fifteen by twenty feet, walls painted a light
beige. The furnishings were a brown vinyl-covered couch and four matching chairs,
coffee urn and a pile of Styrofoam cups on a small table in the corner. A door
at the back of the room led to the locker-filled dressing room where the
surgeons changed into surgical scrub suits before entering the operating rooms.

Vandergrift sat on the couch next to Maharos
waiting for Dr. Marino to finish his operation. She was out of uniform, dressed
in light tan slacks and a plain white blouse, a gold chain at her neck. She
carried a large shoulder purse that held her service revolver. Maharos wore a
striped gray seersucker suit, blue tie with regimental maroon stripes. He
called it his FBI outfit.

The staff doctors who wandered in and out of the
lounge nodded pleasantly to them, and they nodded back. When he had brought
them into the lounge, Marino had told them, “If anybody asks, just tell them
you’re waiting for me. I have docs visiting me from other hospitals all the
time.”

An hour after he had left them, Marino came
bustling into the lounge. His green scrub suit was bloodstained; his cloth shoe
covers were caked with plaster of Paris. He ripped off his paper surgical mask
and cap, tossed them into a wastebasket. He flopped wearily into a chair and
blew out a deep breath. “Tough case. Let me get a cup of coffee and I’ll get
dressed.”

Fifteen minutes later, Marino, in street clothes
except for a long white coat, walked briskly toward the wards to make rounds.
Maharos and Vandergrift tagged a few steps behind him. On each of the wards
they waited at the nurses’ desks while he went from room-to-room accompanied by
a nurse pulling a rack of charts. At the X-Ray Department they watched while
Marino viewed some x-ray films and scans with one of the radiologists. By
eleven-thirty, the doctor retrieved his suit jacket from the Doctor’s Coat Room
and the three made their way to the hospital parking lot.

Maharos and Vandergrift in an unmarked blue
Oldsmobile followed Marino who was driving a tan BMW and weaving in and out of
traffic as though he was trying to lose them. They managed to stay with him and
pulled into the parking lot next to his office building as he was getting out
of his car. He entered through a door in the back of the building. Vandergrift
started to follow him in when Maharos grabbed her sleeve. “Hold it. We’ll take
the patients’ entrance in front. I don’t know if Rankins is watching, but in
case he is, we’re patients.”

Vandergrift said, “Shouldn’t I limp a little?”

“Careful, or I’ll have him put you in a body
cast.”

The two officers were shown into a small room
used by the office staff for coffee and food breaks. They helped themselves to
lunch from a well-stocked refrigerator while Dr. Marino was busy with a stream
of patients that had filled his waiting room.

At one point he stuck his head in the door. “See
why I just couldn’t run off and hide? Most of these people have had
appointments for over a month.”

In Massillon, Show pulled his Chevrolet behind
the dark blue Ford with the antenna jutting from the top, parked at the curb
across the street from the entrance to Rankins’ apartment building. In the
lobby, he pushed the call button to Warner’s apartment. A sandy-haired man in a
sport shirt came to the vestibule door and peered through the glass. Show
noticed that the man had his right hand at his hip under the sport shirt. He
flashed his shield. “I’m Ike Show from the Youngstown P.D.. You expecting me?”

The man relaxed, smiled and brought his right
hand up from his hip as he opened the door. He said, “Hi. I’m Joe Conrad.” He
reached to his back pocket and brought out a wallet. He flipped it open to show
his Massillon P.D. shield. “Yeah. They told us you were coming. My partner,
Matt Clemens, is upstairs.”

 
Show said,
“The guy—what’s his name, Rankins—never showed?”

“Not yet.”

“He won’t.”

Conrad stared at Show.

Show went on, “Guy’s probably long gone out of
here. This stake-out’s a waste of everybody’s time.”

Conrad shrugged. “I sure hope so.”

“I’m going up.”

“Okay. I’ll tell Matt to let you in. Apartment
2-C.” He unclipped a walkie-talkie from his belt and spoke into it while Show
went upstairs.

Five minutes later, Matt Clemens, in a Hawaiian
sport shirt that came down low enough at the hips to cover the small automatic
in a clip-on belt holster, came downstairs and knocked on the door of Warner’s
apartment. When Conrad let him in, he flopped into a chair. “Show’s gonna stay
in the apartment while you grab something to eat. I’ll hold down this end until
you get back.”

“Okay. He don’t think much of this operation.”

“I know. He told me. Maybe he’s right.”

Conrad said, “Did you tell him to keep an eye on
the back of the building from the kitchen window?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think he will?”

Clemens shrugged.

Conrad passed Clemens the walkie-talkie. “I’ll be
at Wendy’s.”

Clemens watched through the window that looked
out on the front of the building as his partner walked up Fern Street. Wendy’s
restaurant was three blocks away on Castle. Show’s indifferent attitude had
annoyed him. Maybe the boredom was natural after you had waited through a
number of stakeouts. This was only Clemens third.

Detective Lon Kinkaid sat in the kitchen at the
Marino home. He was reading the paper, occasionally glancing up to look out of
the window that faced a spacious back yard. He wore a short-sleeved shirt. His
tie was dragged down and the top shirt button open. His shoulder holster held
his Colt .32, something that had the Marino children gaping in fascination when
he had taken off his jacket. On the table in front of him, a walkie-talkie
cackled from time to time as the crew in the surveillance van reported.
Earlier, he had stood on the back porch watching the three Marino boys playing
on a swing and slide set and crawling in and out of a log cabin playhouse. Now
they were in the basement recreation room watching cartoons on a TV set. Kim
Marino was at the stove in a pair of shorts, a halter and an apron. She said,
“I suppose there’s something good in everything. Since I’ve been confined to
this house arrest, I got a lot of junk cleaned out of drawers. Things I hadn’t
looked at in years.”

Kinkaid said, “Whatever you’re cooking smells
awfully good.”

“It’s chicken cacciatore. I got the recipe from
Russ’ mother.”

“You a paisson too?”

“You kidding? With this face? No, I was little
Kimberly Murphy before…”

The static and hiss of the walkie-talkie broke
in. “Check the side door, Sarg. It’s open.”

Kinkaid was out of his chair and ran to the door
that opened to the driveway from the basement. He turned the knob and the door
opened. “Shit!”