One Monday We Killed Them All (12 page)

Brayger had been through my compulsory Testimony Clinic, and had signed the library sheet as having read the two assigned texts.

I sat and watched him blow the prosecution case, merely because he was unusually bright and articulate. But he wasn’t as bright as Hubbard. A big vocabulary can hurt an officer called to give testimony. If he describes the defendant, in answer to one question, as being “adamant,” and a little later as being “inflexible,” the shrewd defense attorney will focus on the different nuances of those two words, and, in front of a wondering jury, lead the witness off into a semantic jungle he could have avoided by merely saying “stubborn” and sticking to it. Also, Brayger was, in the tension of giving testimony, forgetting one of the most basic rules, that of depriving the defense attorney, in cross-examination, of any chance to set the pace of the questioning. I teach my people to wait until the question has been asked, and, in the case of every question, no matter how simple the answer, take a slow five count before giving the answer. The easiest reminder is to sit in the jury box with your thumb on your own pulse. This spacing gives the impression of responsiveness, thoughtfulness, sincerity and reliability. And, as the questions get more complex, it gives you a chance to detect a trap, gives the state a chance to object, and gives the judge a chance to request a clarification of the question. When a trap is obvious, you can
wait out the five count and request that it be repeated. Brayger was being so quick and so responsive that he was entangling himself, confusing the jury, and giving too many personal impressions mixed with the actual facts of the assault.

It hurts to turn over a solid file and then lose because of some legal technicality. It hurts worse to lose because the investigating officer gets trapped into too much deviation from the file.

Thus, at a few minutes after noon, I had a flushed, sullen, indignant Detective Brayger in my office when Meg phoned me.

“It happened,” she said, “what he was waiting for. And he went out. He called a taxi. Can you talk now, dear?”

“Hold it a minute,” I said. I covered the mouthpiece. “Run along, Harry, and for God’s sake stop feeling abused. Hubbard was doing what he’s paid to do. If you can’t be used on the stand, your usefulness around here is pretty damn limited. It’s part of your job, and you’re expected to do it well. Read the texts again. You’ll go through the Clinic again the next time it’s set up. Now go tell John Finch I want you to have a transcript of your testimony for study. After you’ve studied it, write me a special report on exactly what you think you did wrong.”

As he walked out I asked Meg to tell me what happened.

“A special delivery registered letter came for him about forty minutes ago, dear. Addressed to him, care of me. He signed for it and took it into his room. Sort of a fat white envelope. He came back out in about ten minutes and called the taxi. He seemed kind of nervous and excited, but trying to hide it. After he left I looked in his room. There’s black ashes in the big ashtray I put in there for him.”

“What kind of cab did he call?”

“Blue Line.”

“Did you ask him where he was going?”

“He said he was going to do some shopping.”

“Thanks, honey. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“He hasn’t been gone ten minutes yet.”

I checked Blue Line first. They’re the biggest taxi outfit in town and operate on radio dispatch. The driver had made the pickup and then called in his destination as the corner of West Boulevard and Andrews. West Boulevard was Route 60, and Andrews was quite a way out, just
beyond the city line. The driver, she said, would report the drop and probably request his lunch break in that area. I told her to find out from the driver when he called back if McAran gave him any clue as to where he was going.

I sat in considerable indecision after I hung up, wondering if I should send anybody to that area. She called back and said the driver said the fare was looking for a car to buy. It made sense. The big lots were out that way. He had enough money to buy a used car, certainly. I called Vehicle Registration in the basement of the courthouse and told them to be on the lookout for a new registration in the name of Dwight McAran and tell me as soon as any dealer brought the transfer in. The next step was a little more complicated. Post offices operate on the principal of making everything as obscure as possible. Going through official channels would have required a court order, so I had to use a friend I’ve used before. I phoned him and then, after lunch, drove over and talked to him. The letter had been mailed in Pittsburgh the day before, return receipt requested. The receipt was headed back to a Thomas Roberts, General Delivery, Pittsburgh. The envelope had been bulky, weighing an estimated six ounces. It had been printed in blue ink, probably with a post office ball point, and the flap had been reinforced with cellophane tape.

By the time I got back to the squad room I found one of my calls had been from Vehicle Registration. They had registered a transfer from Top Grade Autos to Dwight McAran of a two-year-old Pontiac wagon, and had issued new plates numbered BC18-822. One of the salesmen had brought the application in.

As I didn’t want to bump into McAran if he was still out there, I phoned Top Grade and asked for him and was told he’d left twenty minutes ago in the car he had bought. I left Johnny Hooper in charge and drove out to Top Grade.

It’s one of the bigger lots, perhaps a little more larcenous than most. It was a cool afternoon with bright sunshine and a high wind which flapped the signs and banners and awnings, and picked up towering dust devils. The aluminum sales office was in the middle of the lot. The special deals were lined up across the front of the lot, under a bright protective canopy, facing the busy divided highway. Two men were listlessly wiping the dust off the cars on special sale. One salesman was working on a young couple who were
dubiously examining a pickup truck. The salesman was beaming and gesturing. I parked near the sales office, and as I got out of my car, a fat man came sauntering toward me saying, “We won’t make much on you, friend. Any man who knows exactly how long to hold onto a car before he—”

“Police business,” I said. “Who’s in charge?”

His smile slid off. “Lombardo. He’s inside.”

Lombardo was a stocky man, younger than most of his salesmen, with a wide, white meaningless smile. He had been sitting in the office, chatting with two of his salesmen. He knew my name.

“Honest to God, Lieutenant, I was just saying to these boys, it puts a guy in a funny spot, this McAran coming up with cash like he did, and so do I tell him I can’t take his money on account he served time? Do I ask him where he gets cash? Maybe I get a hit in the mouth, hey? When I send Charlie for the plates I have him hit the bank first and check out the cash. So it’s good, so what else? The way the law reads, I sell something in good faith, then—”

“I’m sure you know how the law reads, Lombardo. I’m sure you have a lot of reason to look things up. Rest easy. It was his money.”

He relaxed. “It’s a good car, but I don’t want it back. The way things are going, Lieutenant, it was the only clean deal in two months. You know what I got to do, the way things are going? I got to wholesale some good clean iron to pay the rent. Right now, believe me, I could make you one hell of a deal on your car, if that’s yours you came in.”

“It’s mine. I use my own car on personal business.”

“What can we do for you, friend?”

“I want to talk to the salesman.”

“What for?”

“Because I can turn personal business into police business, Lombardo, faster than you can turn a speedometer backward. Your knowing he’s my brother-in-law gives you no handle. By tomorrow I can have state inspectors in here freezing the title on everything on the lot which doesn’t pass a complete safety inspection. That front canopy out there is in violation of county zoning on setbacks. The state might want to run a special audit on your sales tax records.”

The white smile finally disappeared. “The salesman was
Jack. Jack Abel, out there, talking to those kids about the truck. Maybe—you could wait just a minute. I mean I could call him, but there’s the chance maybe he’s nailing it down and—”

“I’ll wait.”

“Thanks! Thanks a lot! You know, I got the idea, somehow, you—were sort of an easygoing guy, Lieutenant. I don’t want any trouble. Believe me, I don’t want any kind of trouble more than I got already.”

“Everybody within fifty miles seems to know McAran, and knows he’s my brother-in-law.”

His smile had returned. “Anybody new here maybe doesn’t. But anybody here five years ago isn’t about to forget it.”

I looked out the window and saw the couple start to leave the lot. The salesman turned and began to walk spiritlessly back toward the sales office. I went out and intercepted him twenty feet from the building.

“Abel? Lieutenant Hillyer. City police. Lombardo says you can tell me about selling the Pontiac station wagon to McAran.”

He had a pink moon face, a soft paunch and a green tweed jacket. “Sure. He got a good deal on it. A real good deal. A nice clean wagon. Dark blue. No dings. Heavy duty shocks and springs, load levelers, radio and heater, power steering. Wagons always go pretty good. We wouldn’t have had it around even ten days, but things are slow. We had it priced twenty-five ninety-five, but account of no trade and not too much left in the rubber, it worked around to twenty-three even, tags thrown in. He got a good deal. What else you want to know. I figure you come from the office, you already know he put the cash money right down.”

“Did he get what he was looking for?”

“I guess he did. He walked right in wanting a wagon, a good sized one, heavy, with a lot of muscle under the hood. That one’s got the biggest engine they made that year. See that green and white Buick over there? He didn’t like that one on account of the bright colors. Up there in the front, that dark green Chrysler, he didn’t like that on account it has air conditioning, power windows, power brakes, power seats, all that stuff that pulls your horsepower way down. We took the Pontiac down the road. He worked it over pretty good. He left some rubber on the road starting up
and stopping it too, and he took that corner onto Andrews like I was glad no cop saw it.”

“Any other thing he was looking for in the car?”

“Not a thing I can think of. He isn’t a man to talk. Lord God, he’s a big hunk of man. And I stopped trying to make friends real fast. I just talked about the car. He wanted a car. He didn’t want a friend.”

“Did he hang around while you were waiting for the plates?”

“He walked over to that diner, and when he came back we were putting the plates on it.”

I thanked him and went to my car and got in. I started the motor, then thought of something else, a semi-hunch, and went back inside and asked Lombardo about the money. “Twenty-three one-hundred-dollar bills,” he said. “New, but not real brand new. Not off a roll or out of a wallet. By the time he came in here, and I’d okayed the price, he had the exact right amount in his hand. He didn’t count it out. He just dropped it right there on the desk. I counted it. Twice.”

As soon as I got back to my desk, I phoned Meg. She said he wasn’t home yet. I told her he had bought a car.

“Does he know you know that?”

“No, honey. I checked it out. Be surprised when he drives in with it. I don’t want him to know I’m checking on him.”

“I wish I hadn’t told you about the letter coming.”

“Why not?”

“He shouldn’t be hounded, Fenn. He’s got a right to buy a car, hasn’t he?”

“Of course.”

“Is there anything wrong about buying a car?”

“No.”

“Can’t you just leave him alone?”

“Honey, we can talk about this later. When you drew his money out, how did you give it to him?”

“I just handed it to him, with the cancelled book showing the interest and so on.”

“I mean what demoninations was it in? It was over twenty-eight hundred dollars, wasn’t it?”

“Twenty-eight hundred and sixty-six forty-one. What do you care what denominations it was in anyway?”

“Please, honey.”

“Well—he didn’t say how he wanted it. So I wanted it in
a sort of handy size without being too bulky. So I had them give me ten hundred-dollar bills, and thirty fifty-dollar bills. There were six tens, and a five and a one so that makes three hundred in twenties. Why do you want to know?”

Hooper came in and I motioned to him to sit down. “He paid cash for the car. Twenty-three one-hundred-dollar bills.”

There was a silence. I could hear her breathing. “Maybe he stopped at a bank and changed the fifties to hundreds.”

“The taxi took him directly out to West Boulevard where the used car lots are.”

“Maybe he went into town some other day, when I was shopping. I can’t be certain he hasn’t left the house, dear. I couldn’t
prove
he never went to the bank. Cathie Perkins was here again, you know, yesterday, after she got out of work. Maybe she brought him some money.”

“Meg, honey, why are you fighting the very simple and obvious answer that the money came through the mail?”

“So
all right!
So it
did
come in the mail. Maybe he borrowed it, or somebody owed it to him. Is it any of our business, really?”

“Then he burned the envelope.”

“I shouldn’t have even told you about it, Fenn,” she said in a weary monotone and hung up on me.

When I hung up, Johnny Hooper was looking at me inquisitively. I hesitated, then realized this was no time to hide anything which might become a police matter. I gave it to him fast, cold and complete.

He whistled softly. “The man has friends. And orders maybe? Like stay put until you hear from me? Like burn this letter and buy a fast car. And he makes new friends, doesn’t he? Why are such nice girls attracted to such dangerous animals? Because they
are
nice girls? I’ll have somebody check out her bank book, just in case. Okay? And how about Pittsburgh covering the return receipt?”

“Not enough to go on. No evidence of any crime committed or being planned. Besides, it’s a trick that’s been used before. The man who sent the money doesn’t want the actual signed receipt. He wants to know it was delivered. So he’ll phone the General Delivery clerk and say he’s Thomas Roberts, and is there anything for him, and they’ll say yes, so he’ll say he’ll come down and pick it up. But he doesn’t have to. It was the only time he used the name. So he’ll know McAran got it.”