The Diehard (11 page)

“Why, sir, I should say it was because of his mother. His old mum is a Canadian, you see. She's in a nursing home not far from here.”

Seventeen

“Poor little Byron,” Frances Wienoshek said, “nothing ever seems to go quite right for him. What trouble is he in now?” Mrs. Wienoshek was a tall and bosomy woman with a pretty face that had crumbled at the edges, softened by time and facial powder. She seemed in good health although she claimed to be much weakened by a gall bladder operation two months earlier. Unlike many of her fellow residents at the Anchorage, who were in bathrobes and watching “Dad's Army” on CBC, Mrs. Wienoshek was fully dressed in a skirt and cardigan sweater and her thick gray hair was carefully done up in coiled braids. She was reading a biography of Mary, Queen of Scots.

“I don't know that he's in any trouble,” Mulheisen said, “although he seems to have left his job without notice and failed to return his cab to the company.”

“Oh dear. That sounds a bother. I suppose he's drinking again. The holidays are such a trial for Byron. He is by nature a convivial man. But I must say I never fancied his cabdriving. I think he ought to return to University. He took some night courses at Wayne State, you know, and did very well, especially in Literature.” She spoke with a trace of a British accent.

“Well, I'd like to talk to him,” Mulheisen said. “You must have heard from him.”

Mrs. Wienoshek looked very sad. “I'm afraid I haven't, Mr. Mulheisen. Not for several days. But I expect I shall, for we always have Christmas together. But why do you want to talk to him? Is it about the taxicab?”

“No, it's about a friend of his.”

“Which friend?” she asked.

“That's just it,” Mulheisen said, “we don't know the man's name. The man was found dead in Detroit and, so far, all we have found out about him is that he may have been an acquaintance of your son. Were you familiar with any of your son's friends?”

Mrs. Wienoshek held the book in her lap with a finger in it to mark her place. She pondered. “Byron hadn't many close friends,” she said. “He was always rather quiet and retiring—except when he'd been drinking. The only one I've met in recent years is Elroy. He was an old friend of Byron's from the Air Force. I think Byron felt rather sorry for him. He wasn't really the sort of friend one would expect Byron to have. You see, Byron has led a rather checkered career, I suppose, but deep down he's a sensitive, retiring sort. Perhaps he doesn't look it, but he is really quite cultured. We used to go to the opera.”

“What about this Elroy?” Mulheisen asked.

“Now, Elroy is a pleasant young chap,” Mrs. Wienoshek said, “but he is one of those lads who are always down and out. Not exactly a ne'er-do-well, not exactly, but hardly of Byron's caliber.”

“I see,” Mulheisen said. “Did you ever hear his last name?”

“Oh yes. It's Elroy Carver. He is just a little fellow, not a big husky chap like Byron.”

“About how tall would you say Elroy was?”

“Was?”

Mulheisen nodded. “Was.”

“Oh dear.” Mrs. Wienoshek's soft face went into mourning. “I do hope poor Elroy hasn't had an accident. Byron will be so upset. He was fond of Elroy. Poor Elroy always looked up to Byron, of course, rather as an older brother.”

“I understand,” Mulheisen said. “Could you give me a complete description of Carver?”

“He's such a dear little lad. I shouldn't put him at more than five feet five inches, and not more than nine or ten stone.”

“Nine or ten stone? Is that his weight?”

She smiled benignly. “So sorry, it's what you would call a hundred twenty-five pounds, perhaps. He has dark hair, a narrow head, and a rather furtive expression, I'm afraid. He does not have good teeth. Byron has lovely teeth.”

In the next hour, Mulheisen learned that Frances Wienoshek had been born and raised in Sussex, where she had met and married a visiting Canadian businessman. Shortly after they returned to Nova Scotia, her husband had died. Subsequently she had remarried, to Albert S. Wienoshek, a Toronto mechanic. They had emigrated to Detroit, where Wienoshek worked in the factories and their only son was born. When her second husband died, Mrs. Wienoshek moved back to Canada, but evidently Byron had preferred to be an American.

Among other things, she told Mulheisen that Byron had been in the U.S. Air Force for some fourteen years. “He got into a spot of trouble,” she said. “He would never tell me what it was, but I expect that drinking was involved. He always drank too much. He was never violent, however. His father drank a bit, but he was a lovely man.”

Mulheisen got away, finally, after receiving assurances from Mrs. Wienoshek that if she heard from her son she would contact Mulheisen immediately. He went back to the St. Martin Hotel where he spent another half-hour mollifying an annoyed Windsor police sergeant who said things like, “You Yanks think you can just go barging around. . . .”

It was ten o'clock before Mulheisen got through the tunnel to Detroit. McClain was still hanging around the Homicide office and he had a complete print-out from the computer on John Byron Wienoshek, including his military record. He left Mulheisen to read it and went to put in a similar request on Elroy Carver.

John Byron Wienoshek had enlisted in the U.S. Air Force in 1951. He had served as a gunner in SAC bombers, had been awarded unit citations in Korea, and then was retrained in 1957, when turret gunners became obsolete. He was trained to be a radio mechanic in AACS. There was a list of bases where he had served.
There was also an increasing incidence of demotions and disciplinary action. Evidently, he had not gotten along too well in AACS. Drinking, perhaps.

Mulheisen was intrigued, since he had been in AACS himself, as a control-tower operator. He had always liked AACS, but there was no doubt that it was a hard drinking outfit. Mulheisen used to think it was the result of the pressure of air-traffic control work.

In 1960 Wienoshek had received a summary court-martial on a charge of destruction of government property. Result: one month in the stockade and loss of rank. Probably wrecked the jeep, Mulheisen thought.

In 1962, back up to the rank of technical sergeant, Wienoshek was given a special court-martial on the more serious charge of attempted burglary. Here Wienoshek seemed to have done better, for he was found innocent. But he continued to have trouble. In 1965 he was in Vietnam, where civilian charges were brought against him for malicious destruction of property and felonious assault. It sounded like an attempted armed robbery to Mulheisen. The Air Force had agreed to court-martial Wienoshek, so civilian charges were dropped. Wienoshek was sent back to the States where he was given another special court-martial and dishonorably discharged.

Wienoshek had not prospered in civilian life. Almost every year since his discharge he had been picked up on one minor charge or another, nothing amounting to more than a misdemeanor, however, and all of them apparently related to drunkenness. But in 1970 he was charged with grand larceny in the disappearance of a valuable painting from the Detroit Institute of the Arts, where Wienoshek had been employed as a custodian. But then the charges were dropped. The report told the story. In exchange for dropping charges against Wienoshek, the painting was returned unharmed. He was allowed to leave his position without prejudice.

Since that time, Wienoshek had been employed by almost every cab company in Detroit and Windsor. There were no more arrests, just an occasional ticket of the sort that all cabdrivers get. Mulheisen couldn't believe that Wienoshek had gone on the wagon, not to hear the Dixieland cab dispatcher talk. It seemed more likely that Wienoshek had been able to occupy himself with
other things. Perhaps a lucrative sideline like casual burglary. Once in a while, you drive a man and his wife to the airport, and on the way you learn that nobody will be home for several days.

McClain returned with the print-out on Elroy Carver. Mulheisen groaned. “I'm starving,” he said. “I have to have something to eat before I can go on.”

“Me too,” McClain said. “Let's go downtown to the Coneys. Take the file with us.”

Mulheisen had four hot dogs with onions and drenched with heavy chili. He drank two beers. It was reviving. He was able to focus his eyes again, though he knew he would have gas in the night.

They sat at a Formica-top table in the brightly lit Coney Islands and read the reports. There wasn't a lot on Elroy Terrence Carver. He too had served in the Air Force. It became quickly apparent, once one knew where to look, that Carver and Wienoshek must have met at Lockbourne Air Force Base, in Ohio, where both were stationed from 1959 to 1961. Carver had been given a bad conduct discharge from the service in 1963, for mail theft. He had worked in the base post office. He served three years in Leavenworth.

Afterward he returned to his hometown, Detroit, and was arrested several times on vagrancy charges, then a possession of stolen property charge (sentence suspended), a trespassing charge (eight days in the Detroit House of Correction), a breaking and entering charge (dismissed), and in 1972, burglary. He spent two years in the Milan Correctional Institute for that. Back out, there were parole violations that led to another two years. He had been released in June of this year and there was no further record.

“We still have no proof that the corpse is Carver,” McClain said.

“He should have a complete medical file from the military,” Mulheisen said. “Let's get that to the pathologists and the lab boys. There may be a way to positively identify him . . . blood type, maybe an x-ray of a broken arm, something. I didn't think there was much point in asking Mrs. Wienoshek or Deavons to look at the body.”

“No,” McClain agreed. “The lab is our best chance.”

The big man rubbed his hands together and looked cheerful. “Looks like we're getting closer, Mul. This is good work.”

“We could be farther than you think,” Mulheisen said. “I have a feeling that Arthur Clippert's military record will show that he knew Wienoshek or Carver during his Air Force tour. I've got that record on file, part of the insurance investigation that Scotchman gave me. It's out at the precinct. I'll check it out on the way home.”

“You might have something, Mul. These two birds seem kind of odd to me, though.”

“What's odd? Just a couple of boys gone bad.”

“Sure, only I can't see Carver killing anybody. Wienoshek, maybe. He has a pretty violent history.”

“And so far, everything we have says it was Carver in the house, not Wienoshek. I see what you mean. Of course, then, somebody did a hell of a thorough job on Carver.” Mulheisen sipped at his beer and leaned back in the chair. “It suggests no premeditation in the Clippert murder. It was just incidental to the burglary, after all.”

“Carver was in there, all right,” McClain said, “assuming that he's who the corpse was. It looks like she almost put him down.”

Mulheisen nodded. “From everything I've heard about Wienoshek, he sounds like a different caliber man than Carver. A boozer, but evidently he could hold it most of the time. And people seemed to like him. Carver, they hardly noticed.”

“What about this other guy who's showing up ahead of you all over town?” McClain said. “Who the hell is that?”

“If he's doing what I'm doing,” Mulheisen said, “he must be a detective. A PI.”

“Who's the client?” McClain said.

“Clippert? The Mob?”

“The Mob?”

“Sure. Maybe our boys did snatch something at Clippert's house. Like money. Big money.”

Mulheisen looked at the clock on the wall. It was after one. He was dead tired. He wasn't going to see the Flying Clipper tonight, that was for sure. The prospect of the long drive out to St. Clair Flats was discouraging, but he had to go out to the east side anyway, to get Clippert's records from the precinct.

Eighteen

He woke up. Someone was there! He sat up in the huge bed and listened. Silence. Or rather, not silence. No, not silence at all. If you started counting you would know that there was no silence. The clock. Snow whispering about the house. The bare limbs of trees creaking. The. muffled noise of the city. The house itself made a sound. And there was someone in it besides Arthur Clippert.

For the first time since the death of his wife, he was fully aware of her absence. He was alone. But not quite.

He listened intently, trying not to breathe. Was that a faint step in the kitchen? Did someone bump against the table? A door open, causing a slight draft?

In the dark, his mind's eye pictured the kitchen as he had last seen it. The table heavy and wooden, scarred from a century of cutting and spilling things on it. Jane had bought the table out of an old farmhouse, up north. His supper dishes were still on it. The cleaning woman came only three times a week now. He ate out usually. But tonight on the table were the remains of a too acidic sausage that he had broiled until it had burst. That and the crumbs of a boiled potato, too heavily salted. Jane had liked to cook.

What else was on the table? A fork, half a piece of white bread, butter in a blue dish. And a knife. A very sharp knife, one of a set
of French cutlery. A thin, sharp-bladed knife. Not the same one that had been found in Jane's breast. The police had that knife.

He shuddered and his skin was drawn into goose flesh. Forget that, he told himself. It has nothing to do with me.

Another door opening? A faint creak? He couldn't be sure. Just the hint of something brushing against the thick nap of the carpet.

Arthur Clippert eased himself out of bed, naked. He was in the guest room, down the hall from the room he had once shared with Jane. He stepped carefully to the middle of the room and stopped, listening.

He tried to remember where his gun was. Still in the car? No, he had brought it into the house. It was in the linen closet. But did he dare to go there, to get it?

He could hear nothing in the house, except the night sounds. But he was convinced that someone was there. He had to move. He tiptoed across the carpet, into the hallway. He stopped again and listened. Nothing. He went on to the linen closet. Slowly, carefully, he eased the closet door open. He dared not turn on a light. He felt in among the clean sheets and pillowcases, sliding his hand into their smooth coolness until he located the hard lump of the pistol. But then he could not find the naked metal of the pistol and he panicked, pulling out sheets and tangling them around his hand until, at last, the gun was in his hand. Even then he had a bad moment trying to extricate his hand from the tangled linen.

He held the gun up before him in the darkness and could only barely make out its dull gleam. It was a Colt .45 automatic, a relic of his Air Force career.

He stepped carefully along the hallway, his knees making horrible cracks and pops. It was the tension, he knew, but he could not help it. Unless . . . yes, he could go on his hands and knees.

He went down the stairs backward, praying for no squeaky steps and holding the pistol awkwardly. He was naked and chilled.

The clock ticked. Something shifted slightly, a noise like the friction of fabric, perhaps pant legs rubbing together at the thighs. Outside the wind blew harder, the tree limbs rattled and snow was dashed against the windowpanes.

At last he was at the foot of the stairs. To his left was the big
living room. He crouched back on his heels, as if to force his glowing white nakedness into the wall. He peered into the shadows of the room, partially lit by the streetlight. It must be three in the morning, he thought, or even four.

It occurred to him then that the gun might not be loaded. He felt the butt. The clip was in.

But another thought came: even if the clip was in, was there a shell in the chamber? Was the safety on? Was the gun cocked and ready to fire? He felt for the safety and flicked it with his thumb. There was a tiny click in the darkness. Could someone hear that? he wondered.

But there was no answering sound from the room.

His scrotum was as tight as a peach pit, and as small. He waited and listened. And then he thought: he had flicked the safety, but did that mean it was now on, or off? He couldn't remember. It had been a century since Master Sergeant Patobny had conducted the course, “Familiarization With Small Arms.” For a moment he was distracted by a memory of Master Sergeant Patobny. A stocky man with a fringe of gray-brown hair around a bald dome. He could see the blue Ike jacket, the name tag above the Silver Cross and the campaign ribbons.

He jarred himself back to the present. He knew the distraction of memory was a psychological thing, an attempt of the self to escape present and terrifying reality.

Is this goddamn gun going to fire, or isn't it, he wondered?

He remembered then that he would have to rack the slide back in order to cock the pistol and to inject a round into the chamber. Sgt. Patobny's voice told him that, and also that the safety was now off. So, there was another purpose to the vision of Patobny. But racking the slide, that would make too much noise.

The only way to do it was to slide the thing slowly, easing it past the telltale clicks and minimizing the noise of friction. The trouble was, it was too damn silent in the house. It was as if whoever was there was waiting, holding his breath, listening for the sounds that would tell him where Clippert was crouching.

Click-a-lick-a-lick! It was loud—too damn loud! And he still had to let the slide back. There was nothing for it; he let the slide go slowly back. Slowly!

And then he saw him.

He was across the room, standing near the big chair next to the fireplace. An extra darkness, along with a faint glow that must be the face. And there was a slight rustling sound, almost like tinkling.

He sees me! He heard me! Arthur could feel his own too white flesh gleaming in the darkness, his vulnerable nakedness.

He held the .45 in both hands, stretched out in front of him. It has to fire, he thought. Let it fire! If not, I'm dead.

He aimed directly for the thickest, darkest portion of the figure in the corner. He squeezed the trigger.

KABLOWWW!

The noise, the shock and the buck of the .45 knocked Arthur off balance. He fell to his side, firing.

KABLOWM! BLAM! BLA-BLA-BLAMMM!

The room rang with earsplitting noise. There was a crashing, jangling sound. A terrific commotion. Then a ringing silence.

I got him! he thought. He crouched on the floor, looking about him, still blinded by the brilliant flash of the shots.

Nothing.

He straightened up, on his knees, and looked around, open-mouthed and staring, the .45 still in his fist.

Suddenly, the front door crashed open. Clippert gawked, whirling to look behind him. A second later there was a smashing of glass in the front window, just a few feet away, and a hand with a gun poked in.

“Hold it!”

Clippert froze.

“Get up,” the voice said, commanding.

Clippert staggered to his feet.

“Drop the gun. Kick it away.”

Clippert stubbed his toe on the heavy weapon, but it slid away from him.

“Where's the light switch?”

“The . . . the door,” Clippert said.

“All right, move to it slowly, I can see you. Move to it and turn on all the switches there. Move!”

Clippert moved carefully to the switches by the door and
flicked all three of them. The living room, the entry and the little porch flooded with light. Clippert blinked against the unaccustomed light.

“Step out the door,” the voice snapped.

“Like this?”

“Move!”

Clippert stepped out into the snow, his hands over his head. He shivered in the brilliant light and peered into the darkness. He had never felt so defenseless.

A man appeared out of the darkness wearing a hat and an overcoat. He was tall and skinny, rawboned. He looked more like a cop than anyone Clippert had ever seen.

“Who are you?” the cop asked.

Coldly, Clippert told him.

Someone screamed and screamed at Mulheisen. And then it was the telephone. He sat up and looked with blurry eyes at the glowing of the bedside clock. After four. He had been asleep for just over an hour.

“Wha?” he said to the phone.

A voice heavily laden with resignation said, “Little bit of a problem here at Clippert's place, Mul.”

“Whosis?”

“Maki.” Sergeant Maki of the Ninth Precinct was known on the street as Pivot. He looked like a forty-year-old high-school basketball star, but that wasn't why they called him Pivot. He used to have a habit of wheeling on a tough suspect and belting him. This would happen in the early hours of interrogation. It never happened anymore, but the name was still there.

Mulheisen groaned. Maki waited. Finally, Mulheisen said, “What's the problem?”

Maki explained, finishing, “When I heard the shots I rousted the gun, only it turned out to be Clippert himself.” Maki glanced over at Clippert, who stood glaring by the fireplace, wearing a red velvet robe and holding a snifter of brandy. That corner of the room was a bit messy—the Christmas tree was sprawled on the floor in a tangle of broken limbs and smashed ornaments, plaster was out of the wall.

“He says he heard a burglar, so he shot the hell out of his Christmas tree,” Maki said.

“Any sign of a break-in?” Mulheisen asked.

“Not really,” Maki said. “Coulda been, I guess. He says there's no sign of anything taken. You coming down?”

“Why should I?”

Maki stared at Clippert, an unflinching gaze. “Yeah, well, there's some damage here. A broken window, front door kinda messed up. Clippert's pissed.”

“To hell with him,” Mulheisen said. “Call McClain. Lay on the works, lab, photographer . . .”

“I already did,” Maki said. “McClain said to call you. The lab is coming. Also, Clippert's doctor. He's not hurt, but he may need a sedative, or something. He didn't see the burglar, he says. He thought he did. So he shot the tree with this .45 he's got.”

“Get the gun,” Mulheisen said. “Make sure the lab gets the bullets. Check the registration.”

“It's registered,” Maki said.

“Anything you can take him on?”

Maki shrugged, then realized that Mulheisen couldn't see a shrug over the telephone. “Discharging a firearm within the city limits, maybe?” he said, his voice ripe with irony.

“Okay,” Mulheisen said, “let me talk to him.”

Maki held out the telephone. “You,” he said.

Clippert was outraged. He downed the brandy in one gulp and snatched the telephone from Maki.

“Who is this?” he demanded.

“This is Mulheisen. Heard you had another burglary, Clippert.” Mulheisen's voice was calm and relaxed now. He was lying back in his bed.

“Mulheisen, I have a complaint to make. This officer—”

“Clippert! Did you have a burglar or didn't you?”

“Of course I did! And then I was almost shot by one of your men. Not only that, but I suffered gross indignities and he has been insolent. But what I want to know, Mulheisen, is what the hell he was doing here? I didn't put in any call.”

“Why not?”

“Why—I—there wasn't time . . . I—”

“Clippert, it's after four. When your doctor gets there, why don't you take a pill and go to bed. I'll be in my office by nine o'clock. Why don't you be there too?”

“What? I've had about enough of this insolence, Sergeant. I'll be down there, all right, with my attorney. You're going to wish you had never heard of me.”

“Fine. I want to talk to you about a man named Wienoshek.”

“What? Who?” Clippert paused. “I don't know what you're talking about. What is this?”

Mulheisen noticed that some of Clippert's rage had dissipated. “This guy Wienoshek is a burglar,” Mulheisen said.

“Do you think he's the man who broke in?”

Mulheisen laughed. “Could be. See you in the morning. Nine o'clock. The Ninth Precinct, that's on Chalmers. You know where it is? Good. Now let me talk to Sergeant Maki.”

To Maki he said, “Make it sound like I'm sending you off duty. Maybe he'll go for it and run. I'd like to see that. But I doubt it.”

Maki managed a poor smile. “Well, thanks, Mul. Should I split, or just go back to the station?” His smile faded. “Well, at least it's warm there.”

Mulheisen laughed. “That's too good. Keep an eye on him.”

It was after five before Clippert was alone again. The doctor had left some sleeping pills, but Clippert didn't take them. He had another shot of brandy and trudged back up to the guest room. He lay there, thinking about Wienoshek. What could they make of Wienoshek? He finally decided they could make anything they wanted of Wienoshek, it would have nothing to do with himself.

After a bit he forgot about Wienoshek. He became more conscious of the present, of lying in bed. He rehearsed all the events of the past few hours, going over again how he had awakened, feeling the fear again . . .

And then he was really afraid. Pure, mindless terror seized him and he went stiff, shaking. After a few moments the feeling passed and he was limp, with cold sweat all over his body. It's just shock, he told himself, like trembling an hour after a near accident.
Then he remembered the .45. Where was it? He had left it downstairs, on the mantel of the fireplace.

He got out of bed and went down to get it. It was still there. He had not turned on the light. Once again he stood in the dark room, seeing only by the faint light of the street, holding the .45. He looked down at it. Then he laid the cool muzzle against his cheek, smelling the cordite of the recent explosions mingling with the scent of the gun oil. He flicked his tongue at the barrel and tasted the metallic tang. He edged the muzzle up to his temple.

This is how you do it, he thought. It's easy. You just pull the trigger, like this . . . his finger tightened against the trigger. He lowered the gun.

It was still snowing. He looked out into the swirling cloud around the streetlight. There were no cars parked but he knew they were out there. Oh yes. They were out there, snow or not. But
who?
Mulheisen? Wienoshek? Who else? The FBI, the U.S. Attorney, the grand jury. People. That's all it was. People. They wanted you and fed on you and tore you to bits when you didn't give them what they wanted.