The Good Friday Murder (7 page)

“He only came once?” I asked.

“Only once when I was there. But I know he came other times. The boys told me. He would ask them, what happened
this time, what happened that time? He played the radio for them sometimes, and the boys could tell him back every word.” She laughed. “Like a record. They were so clever.”

“Magda, the police said nothing was stolen from the apartment. What do you think?”

“How could I know? I cleaned Mrs. Talley's bedroom, but I never opened her drawer. If something was gone, how would I know? The apartment looked the same to me. There was blood, but that was because the boys touched their mama and got blood on their hands. But I think everything was there. Did they find her pocketbook?”

“I don't know, but I'm sure it's in the police file. If it had been missing, they would certainly have looked for a thief.”

“Sure. You're right. Sure it was there.” She sipped her tea. “You know, I trusted her so much, I came from my home with only one subway fare. I knew she would give me for coming on Easter. I had to ask the policeman for my fare. They drove me home.”

“They were kind to you, weren't they?”

“Very kind. Very good people.”

“It said in the papers that you took one of the twins and put him in Mrs. Talley's bedroom. Why did you do that?”

“Just to keep them quiet so I could think. Sometimes they would talk, talk, talk when they were together, like the radio. And that day they were crying, ‘Mama, Mama.' Such a terrible thing. You should never live through anything like it.”

“Magda, who do you think killed Mrs. Talley?”

“Somebody. A stranger.”

“A neighbor who didn't like her?”

“I don't think so. Today maybe, not then. Then we were more friends. Today we are more enemies.”

“Did she have any problems with the neighbors?” I asked, not very hopeful of receiving a useful reply.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Magda said quickly. “Well, maybe just the one downstairs.”

“Who was that?”

“Some lady who banged on the ceiling when anybody walked on the floor. Mrs. Talley would laugh at it, but sometimes
it gave her a headache. We didn't make noise, Christine. But some people have those carpets that go everywhere, and they think the rest of us should do that, too.”

I decided to check, wondering how angry a woman might become from hearing footsteps overhead. Angry enough to kill? But then, that was New York, and New Yorkers were known to be strange people.

I glanced at my notes. There was probably nothing new here, except for the description of the Talley apartment, but I was still hopeful. “Did you ever see the twins again?” I asked.

She shook her head and looked sorrowful. Finally she said, “I asked the police where they were and I sent them Christmas cards. Once or twice I called the hospital and asked about them. I always said, ‘Tell him Magda called,' but you never know, do you? Not like today, everybody calls all over the country and it costs nothing. But I never saw them.”

“James is very gray,” I said. “He sits by himself most of the time. But he's in a good place now, a real home. It's not a criminal institution.”

“That's good. And where is Robert?”

“I don't know. I'm trying to find out.”

“Maybe I go and say hello one day.”

“That would be very nice of you, Magda.”

“You think they did it, Christine?”

“I still don't know.”

“Listen to me, they didn't. They were good boys, you know? They loved their Mama. They were
crying
when I came in. But who did it?” she asked rhetorically, and shook her head. “I donno, I donno.”

I got up to leave and remembered something else. “Did anyone ever telephone while you were there?” I asked, feeling rather foolish, asking someone to remember if a phone had rung forty years ago.

But Magda took it seriously, as she had all my questions. “There was a phone, yes. I called her, she called me. Sometimes she talked to a friend. Maybe it rang when I was there.”

I thanked her for her time, her information, her hospitality. Then I wrote my name and phone number on one of my sheets and tore it out. “If you think of anything, please call. Call collect,” I said, to encourage her.

She said she would and she smiled, almost for the first time. I had brought back a lot of unhappy memories.

As I drove home, sorting my way through the streets of Queens, I felt sorry that I had ever thought that she was a suspect.

The Monday appointment with Dr. Sanderson was for eleven in the morning. I left home at nine to give myself plenty of time, and let the car drive itself toward St. Stephen's. As Virginia McAlpin had suggested, I crossed Westchester County on Route 287 and then turned north on Route 9, which stayed on the east side of the Hudson River up to Albany. Across the Hudson the Thruway zipped along, but I always preferred the older, somewhat slower, more picturesque road I had chosen. After Poughkeepsie, I felt familiar stirrings. St. Stephen's was not far. In the past, I had gotten off Route 9 south of the convent and worked my way up and over on local roads. This was my first time driving north of it, and I wondered if I would see a spire as I passed. Maybe, I thought, smiling at the possibility, that was the vantage point that gave you the legendary view of the Hudson.

But I could see nothing identifiable, and finally I knew I had passed the last point at which I might have been able to see it.

I arrived at New Hope long before my appointment, and I spent some time walking through the nearby town. When I turned in to the parking lot and saw the dismal prisonlike building with its barred windows, I felt a surge of pity for the quiet, sad man who had spent forty years of what passed for life here.

Dr. Sanderson took me on time, shook my hand, and sat, not behind his desk, but in a chair matching the one he had offered me. He was probably in his early forties, again far too young to have known James very long.

“Virginia McAlpin has explained your interest in James Talley. I've reviewed his records this morning, and I can tell you that I knew him personally in the years I've been here. What would you like to ask me?”

“The big question is whether you think he may have been innocent of the murder of his mother.”

Dr. Sanderson smiled in a way that made me feel I had asked a naive question. I don't relate well to psychiatrists. They make me uncomfortable. “It's very possible that James is innocent,” he said. “It's also possible that he's guilty. I would like to be able to tell you that I succeeded where all my predecessors failed, that is, in getting inside him. No one seems to have done that in all the years that he was here, and an amazing number of professionals seem to have tried. There's a great fascination with savants.”

“I'm sure there is.”

“But the record shows a slow but constant deterioration in his abilities. When he entered New Hope he was able to dress himself, tie his shoelaces, hang up his clothes, select his food, participate in certain activities. None of that is true anymore. He needs a great deal of attention.”

“Perhaps,” I suggested, “that's due to a kind of lethargy.”

“I couldn't discount that.”

“And depression,” I added. “He still asks for his brother.”

“That is also possible. It wouldn't be the first time that has occurred.”

“Can you tell me why he was separated from his brother when they were all the family each one had?”

“A recommendation was made to the court in 1950,” Dr. Sanderson said. “By a psychiatrist, most likely, or perhaps also by a social worker or psychologist. The judge usually follows those recommendations. It was actually done, whether you find this credible or not, to help the brothers develop independently.”

“Do you know whether his brother has developed better than James?”

“In fact, I do. His behavior has pretty much mirrored James's, with the exception of a few small points. A study was done just a few years ago of the twins and published in a journal.”

“I'd like to read that.”

“I'll have a copy made for you.”

“Thank you. I understand that before the murder, the twins were the subject of a great deal of study. A psychiatrist came to the apartment sometimes to conduct experiments.”

“That would be Dr. Weintraub. I believe he died in the early eighties. I have his published papers, too, if you're interested.”

“Very much.”

“They're quite fascinating. Dr. Weintraub recounts one visit where one of the twins started delivering a speech of remarkable scope and sophistication. It turned out to be a speech President Truman had given and which Mrs. Talley had listened to on the radio. There were many other feats they performed, determining in a couple of seconds how many straws Mrs. Talley had dropped on the floor, recalling what happened on days they had lived through, putting a day on any date you gave them using the current calendar.”

I had heard much of this from Mrs. McAlpin, but hearing it again simply added to the wonder. “Do you have an opinion on why they lost those abilities?”

Dr. Sanderson smiled. “I have lots of opinions,” he said,
and I started to like him. “The shock of realizing what they had done after they killed their mother or, alternatively, the shock of seeing someone murder her. You can take your choice. The police and the courts seemed convinced of the former. Are you convinced of the alternative?”

“I'm not,” I admitted. “And it could be I'm grasping at straws. I think what I'm looking for is some small indication that they might not have done it. This Dr. Weintraub, did he have an opinion?”

“He had a very strong one. He believed they could not have done it.”

I felt a small flutter of elation. “Did he say it publicly or publish it anywhere?”

“It was published in a letter somewhere. I'll have to dig it up. Quite a famous letter, as I recall.”

“But the courts chose to ignore him?”

“He wasn't called to testify. The prosecutor called his own psychiatrist.”

“And the defense? The twins must have been represented by counsel.”

“I believe they were, but I don't know the details.”

“Do you know where Robert is now, Dr. Sanderson?”

“He was also permitted to leave a high-security institution when his brother did. He's in a group home, similar to Greenwillow, near Buffalo. I've been in touch with the director, and his behavior seems to be quite similar to James's, as it has been since the murder.”

“Do you think the decision to separate them was correct?”

“It was correct for several reasons. Besides affording the opportunity for the twins to develop independently, there's a strong possibility that together they might be capable of murder while separately they might not. It may have taken a certain courage, a certain companionship if you will, to commit the act, which neither twin possessed alone. If you want my opinion on whether James Talley is capable of murder today, I will answer unhesitatingly no. If they're together, I can't give you an opinion.”

“You think they may be dangerous together?”

“Frankly, I don't, but I don't discount the possibility.”

“Would you have any objections to getting them together?”

The doctor pursed his lips, then said, “At this point, I can't say I would. It might be interesting to see whether they remember each other.”

“Let me set some facts out before you as I see them,” I said, trying to make some sense out of the bits and pieces that seemed to have no structure. “On the morning of Good Friday, Magda, the girl who came to the house three mornings a week, took the twins out for a walk, and they performed one of their marvelous mental feats for her. They recalled the day she was born eighteen years earlier, when they were only eleven. She found it very remarkable, and she told the police about it when they questioned her on Easter Sunday.

“But on Easter Sunday they had lost their gift. The police questioned them for hours, first at the apartment and then later at the police station. I'm sure the police threatened them. There was no Miranda warning forty years ago, and they didn't get a lawyer right away. But even with all that pressure, they didn't say anything. They could have blamed each other, but they didn't. They could have broken down and confessed. They could have blamed some other person. None of that happened. Can you account for that in any way, Doctor?”

“Not in any way that will satisfy you. All I can say is the obvious, that between the morning of Good Friday and the morning of Easter Sunday, something very profound happened to change those two young men. In a very real sense, the twins that performed for Magda on Good Friday were not the same people who were arrested on Easter Sunday.”

“Do you think, if James knows who did the killing, that he has the mental competence to keep it a secret?”

“That's the most puzzling aspect of the whole case, Miss Bennett. Keeping a secret requires rather sophisticated thinking. I don't think he has it. Dr. Weintraub didn't think he had it. Still, forty years have passed and he's said nothing.”

“Maybe he was locked in a bedroom while it happened.”

“Possibly. But he would know who locked him up, wouldn't he?” He smiled. “It's a tough one.”

“Who arranged for James to go to Greenwillow?” I asked.

“The court did, with my recommendation.”

The surprise must have shown on my face. “You,” I said.

“As I told you earlier, I don't think James is capable of murder. I'm also less than wholehearted about punitive detention. And he's been incarcerated longer than most people convicted in the state of New York—without having ever been convicted. In my small way, I'm something of a civil libertarian.” He looked at his watch. “Shall we have a bite to eat in the village? It's past twelve.”

“I'd like that.”

We ate in a coffee shop with good home cooking and spent an hour or more talking. I told him I had recently left St. Stephen's and he seemed very interested in that, in why I had entered and why I had left. He was a kind man with a great capacity for empathy. When he told me about his family, I felt honored, as though perhaps he felt that I, too, had some of the qualities needed to listen and respond. In the short time I knew him, I altered some of my feelings about the profession and especially about its practitioners.

When we returned to New Hope, it was nearly two. Dr. Sanderson picked up the address of Robert Talley's group home and promised to have his secretary send me copies of all the relevant articles he had mentioned as soon as they could be unearthed.

Then we shook hands and I drove away.

It was a beautiful day and I drove south at a leisurely speed. When I approached the turnoff for St. Stephen's, I began to feel a compelling tug. I wanted to see it again, to see the people I had left behind. Something in me craved a look at the grounds, which were surely the most beautiful I would ever see, the somewhat dank scent of the chapel, the sight of nuns hurrying along the paths. I had not left in anger as many nuns do nowadays, or because a relationship with a
man had caused me to turn against my vows. I had left because I had decided over a long period of time that it would be better for me and therefore ultimately better for the convent. I had departed with a lot of goodwill, leaving behind friends. Today I wanted to see them.

“Too soon, Kix,” I said aloud, and hearing my voice, I knew it was true. I needed to establish myself in my new community and do this job that I had promised to do before I went back to say hello.

I drove past the turnoff and kept driving south, finally, some time later, stopping in Poughkeepsie. I had never seen Vassar, and here was the perfect day to do it.

After my visit, I had dinner in town and set out for home. It was after eight when I entered Oakwood and slowed down to drive through the familiar streets, looking out for young baseball players and skateboarders as I neared Pine Brook Road.

Although my life has had its share of drama, I usually look with suspicion at breathlessly described dramatic moments so beloved by writers. But what happened that evening as I returned from New Hope surely had all the elements of high drama.

It was dusk as I turned in to my driveway. The automatic timers Aunt Meg had set before her final illness had turned on three lights in the house, giving it a comfortable, lived-in look. I drove into the garage, pulled the door down, and walked to the back door. The garage is detached from the house, something Aunt Meg always considered a plus. (“It doesn't look like one of those boxes the builders throw up all over town.”) As I turned the key, I heard the phone ringing.

For the first three weeks that I lived in the house, the phone rang so infrequently that it startled me when I heard it. The last few days, of course, had brought a change, and there were so many people who might be calling me with information I could scarcely wait to hear that I pushed the door open, leaving my key in the lock, dropped my bag as I ran
to the kitchen, and answered with a breathless “Hello?” on what must have been the fifth or sixth ring.

“Hello? Christine? It's you?” the somewhat high-pitched voice with its still audible relic of Eastern Europe said in my ear.

“Magda? Yes, it's me. What is it?”

“Christine, I am so glad to reach you. How are you?”

I've never been very good on the telephone. I have used it almost exclusively to get information and conduct business. People who start conversations with polite, meaningless exchanges tend to drive me crazy, but I've learned to play the game.

“Fine,” I said conversationally, not asking how she was in return.

“I've tried you all evening, but you weren't home.”

“I've been out all day. I just got in.”

“Well, that's good. I thought maybe I wrote down the number wrong.”

Please, I thought, please tell me. “It was the right number. Did you think of something to tell me?”

“Something small but maybe important, you know?”

“What is it?” I struggled not to sound impatient.

“I thought of it after you left, and I didn't know if I should bother to call.”

“Of course you should call. What was it, Magda?”

“When the police were ready to take the boys away that night, I couldn't find Robert's coat.”