The Diehard (3 page)

Four

Mulheisen spotted the scene from a block away. The sidewalks were lined with neighbors. Uniformed officers stood around talking to one another and keeping the neighbors from getting too close. A police ambulance was parked in the driveway of a large Georgian brick mansion. There were several patrol cars parked along the curb, and the van from the forensics lab was parked right in front of the house.

Mulheisen had to park a half-block away and walk back. “Hi, fellows,” he greeted the patrolmen. “Buchanan still here?”

“Yeah, Sarge. Him and Lieutenant Johnson, right inside.”

A reporter from the
News
walked over. “Big murder, eh, Mul?” he said.

Mulheisen looked mystified. “Don't know anything about it,” he said. He turned to the patrolman. “Is there a body here?”

“Sure is,” the patrolman said. “A broad. Inspector McCain's here, too. He's over there.” He pointed a gloved hand at a large Tudor-style house with mullioned windows, exposed beams. There was an elaborate caroling scene on the lawn.

“What's over there?” Mulheisen asked.

“I don't know,” the patrolman said. “Somebody said that was where the broad lived, but this is where she died.”

Mulheisen looked up and down the street where groups of people stood looking at the Georgian house. It was a neighborhood of mansions, built in a confusion of styles and effects. They were mostly built in the early boom of Detroit's industrial success. All of the streets in this neighborhood had Indian names, so the area was called Indian Village. Over the decades the neighborhood had been engulfed by residential growth. First working-class people from central Europe, then came the hillbillies, and now, finally, the blacks. It was nearly all black around Indian Village now, but the Village itself remained an enclave of the grandiose manner. It was mostly inhabited by the now elderly offspring of the original giants of the automobile industry. There were very few new houses in the Village and the old mansions were too expensive and inconvenient to maintain, even for wealthy people. Some of them were only partially occupied, whole wings and floors were closed off.

“Don't they have some kind of private police patrol here?” Mulheisen asked the patrolman.

“Yep. Triple Security. They got a couple men over there with Inspector McClain.”

Mulheisen turned back to the man from the
News.
He had been joined by two more reporters. “I guess the guy to see is Inspector McClain, fellows.” They nodded and trooped back to the Tudor house. Mulheisen went on into the Georgian.

The corpse lay on its back just inside the door. Mulheisen squeezed around lab technicians and photographers and into the living room. The body on the floor was that of a bloodied and severely brutalized young woman. She might have been beautiful once, but now her face was battered and swollen, lips cut and nose broken. The handle of a long knife stuck out of her chest.

It was a terrible sight, even for Mulheisen, who had seen men with their noses torn off, with brains spilling from their shattered skulls. It was made more horrible by the realization that this mutilated mess on the Oriental carpet was once an exceptionally handsome creature.

“What the hell? Are those bullet holes, too?” Mulheisen pointed to the bluish marks on the shoulder and abdomen.

The City Physician stood by. “I would say so,” he said. He was a careful man. He was willing to attest that the body in
evidence here was indeed that of a deceased young woman. The police could remove it to the morgue as soon as they liked. He would not, of course, offer an opinion on the cause of death, despite the massive evidence. That was the job of the pathologists who would perform the autopsy.

A Homicide detective named Joe Greene stood off to one side with his hands in his pockets. He ignored the chatter of an inspector who stood beside him. This was Precinct Inspector Buchanan of the Ninth, a small and handsome man who did not look like a policeman. He looked like an undersecretary of a foreign legation. Next to him was his Lieutenant of Detectives, Stewart Johnson. Stew Johnson had a perpetual beard shadow and his uniform never fit properly. He was only slightly overweight, but looked obese. He was the perfect lieutenant for Buchanan, being intelligent without being imaginative or independent, and he was solidly loyal to his precinct inspector.

Buchanan and Johnson saw Mulheisen at the same instant.

“Where the hell have you been?” they said in unison.

“Outside,” Mulheisen said. He looked at Joe Greene. “You handling this?”

Greene looked pained. “Guess so,” he said. “Not that I don't already have a dozen cases going. This one could be a bitch if we don't get the bastard quick. The newspapers'll be all over it like flies on shit.”

The ambulance men were placing the body on a stretcher. The knife handle still protruded.

“Looks like she might have been a showgirl,” Mulheisen said. “Who was she?”

“Mulheisen,” Buchanan said, “this is Homicide's case.”

“I'm just asking,” Mulheisen said.

“Mrs. Arthur Clippert,” Joe Greene said. “She lived next door. Her husband's some kind of lawyer. We haven't been able to get hold of him, yet.”

“What happened?” Mulheisen said.

“Mulheisen,” Buchanan interjected, “let's just leave this to Homicide, eh?”

“Sure, sure,” Mulheisen said.

“Seems like she came strolling in here about an hour ago,
naked as a jaybird, and dropped dead on this lady's carpet. The lady of the house, a Mrs. Mercer, answered the doorbell and here's her neighbor with a knife in her chest. Mrs. Mercer is upstairs now with her husband and a doctor. One of your precinct boys is taking her statement.”

Mulheisen turned to Buchanan and Johnson and smiled, showing his teeth. “Who's upstairs?” he said.

“Ahab,” Johnson said. “Ahab” was the nickname of Hassim Ayeh, the youngest and newest member of the Ninth Precinct's detective squad.

“Well, what's the deal?” Mulheisen asked.

“This case is going to be controversial,” Buchanan said. “I think the precinct would do well to leave it to the big boys downtown. Of course, we'll be glad to assist them, but it's really Homicide's jurisdiction.”

Mulheisen looked at Joe Greene out of the corner of his eye. Greene was studying a cigarette. “That sounds all right,” Mulheisen said.

Buchanan was clearly relieved. “There will be a lot of press attention,” he said. “The department could come under a lot of fire if it isn't wrapped up quickly.”

“I think I'll just go up and see how Ayeh is doing,” Mulheisen said. Greene went with him. Buchanan and Johnson looked after them with suspicion.

It was a winding staircase with a spindle railing, old-fashioned and elaborate, like the wainscotted hallway. In the first bedroom an elderly woman sat in a rocking chair with a sweater about her shoulders. Nearby, on the bed, sat an old man. A man in a dark-blue suit holding a stethoscope stood watching while Ayeh talked to the lady. Ayeh was tall and thin with a large hooked nose. He was trying to be polite and gentle with his witness, but she looked wary of him. Mulheisen thought she might still be in shock. Ayeh looked up with relief when he saw Mulheisen and Greene in the doorway. “Excuse me, ma'am,” he said, and came out of the room.

“Can't get much out of her, Mul,” he said. “Still in shock, I guess. And the doc isn't too happy with me, either.”

“What have you got?” Mulheisen asked.

“Her name is Edna Mercer, his is Henry. They live alone
except for a maid named Martha James who comes five days a week, not including today. Mrs. Mercer was in the greenhouse this morning—they got a greenhouse out back, attached to the house. About eight forty-five she heard the doorbell ring. She let Mrs. Clippert, her neighbor, in. Mrs. Clippert collapsed just inside the door. Mrs. Mercer fainted. Her husband came downstairs a few minutes later and he nearly fainted. But he called the doctor and the police. He called the police at eight fifty-seven, according to our records.”

“Mercer is the name?” Mulheisen said.

“Yeah. They've lived here for a long time. Mr. Mercer was the president of a big tool company. He's retired. I think Mrs. Mercer's father invented the hydraulic clutch or something. You want to talk to them?”

“Okay,” Mulheisen said. He nodded to Greene and then went back into the room alone. He said hello to the doctor and introduced himself. “How are these folks doing, Doctor?” he asked.

“They've had quite a shock this morning,” the doctor said. “I'd like to see them rest.”

“Yes,” Mulheisen said. “I'd like to ask just a few questions and then we can clear out of here and leave them in peace.” He turned to Mrs. Mercer. “You're Mrs. Mercer? I'm Sergeant Mulheisen.” He cocked his head. “Mercer? Mercer. Now where have I heard that name?”

On the dresser was a photograph of Mrs. Mercer in a long evening gown. There was a sash across the bodice.

“You're in the Eastern Star, aren't you?”

“Why, yes,” Mrs. Mercer said.

“Maybe you know my mother,” Mulheisen said. “Mrs. Cora Mulheisen, from St. Clair Flats.”

“Oh my, yes,” Mrs. Mercer said. “I've known Cora Mulheisen for years. And your father, as well. He was the Water Commissioner. He was in Scottish Rite.”

Mulheisen nodded enthusiastically.

“What lodge are you in, Sergeant?” asked Henry Mercer.

Mulheisen shook his head ruefully. “I'm afraid I don't belong to any lodge right now,” he said. “This business of mine gets kind of hectic, you see. Crazy hours and always on call. I used to play
ball for Demolay when I was a kid.” He turned to Mrs. Mercer. “I'll bet you can't guess where Mother is this morning. Bird watching.”

Mrs. Mercer shook her head. “In this weather? Where does she get the energy? We all ought to be down in Florida. If it wasn't for my plants I think Henry and I would be down there all winter. But you can't get anybody who will take proper care of plants.”

“That's what I try to tell Mother,” Mulheisen said. “But she won't listen. I tell her that there are birds in Florida, too.” He looked up at the doctor. The doctor smiled and nodded, then quietly left the room.

“I guess you folks have had a terrible experience this morning,” Mulheisen said. “How well did you know Mrs. Clippert?”

“Oh we've known Jane since she was just a child,” Mrs. Mercer said. “Her father bought the house next door more than twenty-five years ago.”

“Her father was Axel Bodnar,” Mr. Mercer said, “of Bodnar Bathrooms, you know? Jane was his only child and her mother died just after Jane was born. We never knew her mother. And then when Jane married Arthur, Mr. Bodnar gave them the house.”

“So the Clipperts have been neighbors of yours for quite a while,” Mulheisen said. “Pretty good neighbors, I guess?”

“We don't see an awful lot of them,” Mrs. Mercer said. “I guess Mr. Clippert is a very busy man. They travel a lot. Jane used to come over and have a cup of tea, now and then.”

“How did the Clipperts get along with one another?”

“Why, I think they were happily married, if that's what you mean,” she said. “They have always been very pleasant when we've seen them. I'm sure they were very much in love.”

“I see,” Mulheisen said. “I'm just trying to get a picture of things in my mind. Now, you were in the greenhouse when the doorbell rang. What time was that?”

Mrs. Mercer straightened her glasses. “I'm not sure, but I suppose it was between eight-thirty and a quarter to nine.”

“And you were upstairs, Mr. Mercer?”

“That's right,” Mr. Mercer said. He looked kind of embarrassed.

“So you went to the door,” Mulheisen said to the woman, “and what happened?”

Mrs. Mercer looked down at her hands folded in her lap and was silent.

“You opened the door . . .” Mulheisen prompted.

Mrs. Mercer took a deep breath. “I opened the door . . .”

“And Mrs. Clippert was there,” Mulheisen said. “Did you see anyone else?”

“No. No, I was so shocked. I don't believe I would have noticed anything else. At first I didn't recognize her, you see. I mean, I didn't—I couldn't imagine what was happening. She had no clothes on, you see, and . . . there was a lot of blood.”

Mrs. Mercer looked down again. She was trembling. Mulheisen turned to her husband.

“Did you hear anything, sir? Did you hear the bell?”

“I was in the bathroom,” Mr. Mercer said. “I didn't hear the bell. But I did hear a scream. I thought perhaps Edna had fallen. I came downstairs as soon as I could.”

“When you were in the greenhouse, Mrs. Mercer, did you hear any sounds before the bell rang? Like gunshots?”

Mrs. Mercer shook her head.

Mulheisen nodded reassuringly. “I see. So Mrs. Clippert was at the door. Did she walk in by herself? Did you help her?”

“No, I didn't touch her. I was afraid. I backed away from the door, I believe, and she—she seemed to stagger. I could see she was hurt badly, and then I recognized that it was Jane.” Mrs. Mercer sobbed. She took off her glasses and patted her eyes with a handkerchief. After a moment she got control of herself and went on. “She took a couple of steps toward me and then she stopped and was swaying and then she spoke and then she just slumped and fell backwards and she hit the floor. Yes, she hit the floor very hard. And I screamed and then I guess I fainted.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Mercer,” Mulheisen said. “You say she spoke? What did she say?”

“I hardly know,” Mrs. Mercer said. “I'm not sure. She didn't speak very clearly.”

“What do you think she said?” Mulheisen asked. His tone was a bit less solicitous now, more demanding.

“I'm not sure. She said—well, it was two things, actually. The first thing was ‘not drunk,’ I think.”

“Not drunk?” Mulheisen said.

“Yes. And then she said something that sounded like ‘black blood,’ or it could have been ‘black love.’ I'm pretty sure about the ‘black’ part, but not the other word.”

Buchanan will flip, Mulheisen thought. If there is a racial angle to this he'll be expecting a riot.

“Let's go on to some other things,” Mulheisen said. “What kind of person was Jane Clippert? What kind of life did she lead?”

“Janey was a wonderful girl,” Mr. Mercer put in. His wife nodded in agreement. “She was a beautiful girl and became a fine woman. Her father tried to spoil her, but she couldn't be spoiled. He sent her to schools in Europe. She used to send us postcards from Switzerland.”