87P14-Lady, Lady, I Did It! Page 8

  “Yes, Mr. Townsend?”

  “Now, I…I wonder. I mean, Bert’s a cop and I like Bert. I like him. But…did…did Claire get killed because her boyfriend is a cop? That’s what I’d like to know.”

  “We don’t think so, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Then why did she get killed? I’ve been over it a hundred times in my mind. And it seems to me that…maybe somebody had something against Bert and he took it out on Claire. He killed Claire to get even with Bert. Just because Bert’s a cop. Now doesn’t that seem to make sense? If anything in this whole damn thing makes sense, doesn’t that seem to make the most sense?”

  “We haven’t overlooked that possibility, Mr. Townsend,” Meyer said. “We’ve gone back in our files over all the major arrests Bert made. We’ve eliminated those which were petty offenses because they didn’t seem to warrant such massive retaliation. We’ve also eliminated any men or women who are still in prison, since obviously—”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “—and also those who were paroled more than a year ago. We figure a vendetta murder would have been committed as soon after—”

  “Yes, I see, I see,” Townsend said.

  “So we’ve rounded up recent parolees and men who’ve completed shorter terms—at least, all those for whom we have known residences. We’re still in the process of questioning these people. But, quite frankly, this doesn’t seem to be that kind of a murder.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A murder case has a feel to it, Mr. Townsend. When you’ve worked enough of them, you develop a sort of intuition. We don’t think Claire’s death was connected with the fact that Bert is a cop. We may be wrong, but so far our thinking is going in another direction.”

  “What direction is that?” Townsend asked.

  “Well, we think the killer was after a specific person in that shop, and that he got the one he was after.”

  “Why couldn’t it have been Claire? And why couldn’t…?”

  “It could have been Claire, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Then it also could have been connected to Bert.”

  “Yes, but then why didn’t the killer go after Bert? Why would he kill Claire?”

  “I don’t know why. What kind of a crazy twisted bastard would kill four people anyway?” Townsend asked. “Are you trying to apply logic to this? What logic is there? You just told me he was after only one person, for Christ’s sake, but he killed four!”

  Meyer sighed patiently. “Mr. Townsend, we haven’t discounted the possibility that someone carrying a grudge against Bert Kling took it out on him by killing your daughter. It’s happened before, certainly, and we’re investigating that possibility. I’m only trying to say that it doesn’t seem to be the most fruitful course we can pursue in this case. That’s all. But, of course, we’ll continue to explore the possibility until we’ve exhausted it.”

  “I’d like to think Bert had nothing to do with this,” Townsend said.

  “Then please think that,” Carella said.

  “I’d like to.”

  The room was silent.

  “In any case,” Meyer said, “Claire was one of the four people killed. With this in mind—”

  “You’re wondering whether Claire was the intended victim?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what we’re wondering.”

  “How would I know?”

  “Well, Mr. Townsend,” Carella said, “we thought perhaps Claire might have mentioned something that was troubling her. Or—”

  “Nothing seemed to be troubling her.”

  “Had she received any threatening phone calls? Or letters? Would you know?”

  “I work nights,” Townsend said. “I’m usually asleep during the day while Claire is at school or doing casework. We usually have dinner together, but I don’t recall her saying anything about threats. Nothing like that.” He had inadvertently slipped into the present tense in discussing his daughter, casually sidestepping the fact that she was dead.

  “What sort of casework did she do?” Carella asked, reverting to the proper tense.

  “She works at Buenavista Hospital,” Townsend said.

  “What sort of work?”

  “Well, you know she’s a social worker, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “She does…well, you know what medical social workers do, don’t you?”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Townsend.”

  “Well, Claire works—” He stopped suddenly, as if realizing all at once that he had been committing an error in tense. He stared at the detectives, somewhat surprised by his own discovery. He sighed heavily. “Claire worked,” he said, and he hesitated again, giving the word time to set, accepting the knowledge once and for all, “Claire worked with hospitalized patients. Doctors provide medical care, you know, but very often it takes more than that to make a patient well. Claire provided the something more. She helped the patient toward using the medical care, toward wanting to be well again.”

  “I see,” Carella said. He thought for a moment and then asked, “Did Claire ever mention any particular patient she was working with?”

  “Yes, she mentioned a great many of them.”

  “In what way, Mr. Townsend?”

  “Well, she took a personal interest in all the people she worked with. In fact, you might say her work was this personal interest, this special attention to a patient’s problems.”

  “And she would come home and tell you about these people, is that right?”

  “Yes. Stories about them…or…or funny things that happened. You know.”

  “Were there times when something happened that wasn’t so funny, Mr. Townsend?”

  “Oh, she had her complaints. She was carrying a very large caseload, and sometimes it got a little difficult. Sometimes her temper wore a little thin.”

  “Did she mention any specific trouble?”

  “Trouble?”

  “With patients? With families of patients? With doctors? With anyone on the hospital staff?”

  “No, nothing specific.”

  “Anything at all? A slight argument? Anything you can remember?”

  “I’m sorry. Claire got along well with people, you see. I guess that’s why she was a good social worker. She got along with people. She treated everyone like a person. That’s a rare talent, Mr. Carella.”

  “It is,” Carella agreed. “Mr. Townsend, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you very much.”

  “Is…is there anything I can tell Bert?” Townsend asked.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bert. He’s sure to be at the funeral parlor.”

  On the way downstairs, Meyer asked, “What do you think?”

  “I’d like to hit the hospital,” Carella said. “What time do you have?”

  “Ten-thirty.”

  “You game?”

  “Sarah said to be home by lunch.” Meyer shrugged.

  “Let’s do it now, then. It might give us something to go on tomorrow.”

  “I don’t like hospitals,” Meyer said. “My mother died in a hospital.”

  “If you want me to go alone…”

  “No, no, I’ll come with you. It’s just I don’t like hospitals, that’s all.”

  They walked to the police sedan, and Carella slipped in behind the wheel. He started the car and then eased it into the light Sunday morning traffic.

  “Let’s have a quick rundown while we drive over, okay?” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “What’s the other team covering?”

  “Di Maeo’s checking out the 1954 bookstore holdup. Our records show the thief was released from Castleview in 1956 and returned to Denver. But he wants to make sure the guy didn’t come back here. He’s checking on some of his buddies, too, to make sure they weren’t involved in the Friday shooting.”

  “What else?”

  “He’s going over every arrest Bert ever made, sorting them out, putting a pickup-and-hold on anybody who looks like a possib
le. He’s plenty busy, Steve.”

  “Okay. What about Willis and Brown?”

  “Willis is trying to locate family or friends of the fourth victim. What the hell was his name?”

  “La Scala.”

  “That’s right,” Meyer said. “Anthony La Scala.”

  “How come Italians are always getting shot?” Carella asked.

  “They’re not.”

  “On The Untouchables they’re always getting shot.”

  “Well, that show is stacked,” Meyer said. He grinned slyly and added, “Did you catch that one?”

  “I caught it.”

  “Stacked. Robert Sta—”

  “I caught it,” Carella said again. “Has Willis found an address for this La Scala character yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “That’s pretty peculiar, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, pretty peculiar.”

  “Makes him sound a little shady.”

  “All your countrymen are shady,” Meyer said. “Didn’t you know that? Don’t you watch The Untouchables?”

  “Sure I do. You know what I noticed?”

  “What?”

  “Robert Stack never smiles.”

  “I saw him smile once,” Meyer said.

  “When?”

  “I forget. He was killing some hood. But I distinctly saw him smile.”

  “I never saw him smile,” Carella said seriously.

  “Well, a cop’s life is a tough one,” Meyer said. “You know what I noticed?”

  “What?”

  “Frank Nitti always wears the same striped, double-breasted suit.”

  “That’s ‘cause crime doesn’t pay,” Carella said.

  “I like that guy who plays Nitti.”

  “Yeah, I do, too.” Carella nodded. “You know something? I don’t think I ever saw him smile either.”

  “What’s with you and this smiling business?”

  “I don’t know. I like to see people smile every now and then.”

  “Here,” Meyer said. “Here’s a smile for you.” He grinned from ear to ear.

  Carella said, “Here’s the hospital. Save your teeth for the Admissions nurse.”

  The Admissions nurse was charmed to pieces by Meyer’s dazzling dental display, and she told them how to reach the ward where Claire Townsend had worked. The intern on duty wasn’t quite as thrilled by Meyer’s smile. He was underpaid and overworked, and he didn’t need a comic vaudeville team lousing up his nice quiet ward on a nice quiet Sunday morning. He was ready to give the itinerant flatfoots a fast brush, but he didn’t know he was dealing with Detective Meyer Meyer, scourge of the underworld and the medical profession, the most patient cop and man in the city, if not in the entire United States.

  “We’re terribly sorry to intrude on your valuable time, Dr. McElroy,” Meyer said, “but—”

  McElroy, who was a bit of a sharpshooter himself, quickly said, “Well, I’m glad you understand, gentlemen. If you’ll kindly leave, then, we can all get back to—”

  “Yes, we understand,” Meyer sniped, “and of course you have patients to examine and sedatives to distribute and—”

  “You’re oversimplifying an intern’s work,” McElroy said.

  “Naturally I am, and I apologize, because I know how very busy you are, Dr. McElroy. But we’re dealing with a homicide here—”

  “I’m dealing with sick people here,” McElroy interrupted.

  “And your job is to keep them from dying. But our job is to find out who killed the ones who are already dead. Anything you can tell us about—”

  “I have specific orders from the chief of staff,” McElroy said, “and it’s my job to carry them out in his absence. A hospital works by the clock, Detective…Meyer, was it?”

  “Yes, and I understand—”

  “—and I simply haven’t the time to answer a lot of questions—not this morning, I haven’t. Why don’t you wait until Staff comes in, and you can ask—”

  “But you worked with Claire Townsend, didn’t you?”

  “Claire worked with me, and with all the other doctors on this ward, and also with Staff. Look, Detective Meyer—”

  “Did you get along well with her?”

  “I don’t intend to answer any questions, Detective Meyer.”

  “I guess he didn’t get along with her, Steve,” Meyer said.

  “Of course I got along with her. Everyone did. Claire was a— look, Detective Meyer, you’re not going to trick me into a long discussion about Claire. Really! I have work to do. I have patients.”

  “I have patience, too,” Meyer said, and he grinned beautifully. “You were saying about Claire?”

  McElroy glared at Meyer silently.

  “I guess we could subpoena him,” Carella said.

  “Subpoena me? What in hell…? Look,” McElroy said patiently, “I have to make my rounds at eleven o’clock. Then I have to order medication. Then I have two—”

  “Yes, we know you’re busy,” Meyer said.

  “I have two spinal taps and some intravenouses, not to mention new admissions and personal histories and—”

  “Let’s go get a warrant,” Carella said.

  McElroy’s shoulders slumped. “Why’d I ever become a doctor?” he asked no one in particular.

  “How long did you know Claire?”

  “About six months,” McElroy said tiredly.

  “Did you like working with her?”

  “Everyone did. Medical social workers are very valuable to us, and Claire was an unusually conscientious and able person. I was sorry to read about…about what happened. Claire was a nice girl. And a good worker.”

  “Did she ever have any trouble with anyone on the ward?”

  “No.”

  “Doctors? Nurses? Patients?”

  “No.”

  “Now, come on, Dr. McElroy,” Meyer said. “This girl wasn’t a saint.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t a saint,” McElroy said, “but she was a damn good social worker. And a good social worker doesn’t get involved in petty squabbles.”

  “Are there petty squabbles on this ward?”

  “There are petty squabbles everywhere.”

  “But Claire never got involved in any of them.”

  “Not to my knowledge,” McElroy said.

  “How about her patients? You can’t tell us all of her patients were ideal, well-adjusted individuals who—”

  “No, many of them were quite disturbed.”

  “Then, surely, all of them didn’t readily accept what she was trying to—”

  “That’s true. Not all of them accepted her at first.”

  “Then there were problems.”

  “At first. But Claire had a wonderful way with people, and she almost always gained a patient’s complete confidence.”

  “Almost always?”

  “Yes.”

  “When didn’t she?” Carella asked.

  “What?”

  “Almost isn’t always, Dr. McElroy. Did she have trouble with any of the patients?”

  “Nothing serious. Nothing she couldn’t work out. I’m trying to tell you that Claire was an unusually dedicated person who had a wonderful way of dealing with her patients. To be quite frank about it, some medical social workers are a severe pain in the ass. But not Claire. Claire was gentle and patient and kind and understanding and…She was good, period. She knew her job, and she loved her job. She was good at it. That’s all I can tell you. Why, she even…Her work extended beyond this ward. She took a personal interest in the patients’ families. She visited homes, helped relatives to make adjustments. She was an unusual person, believe me.”

  “Which homes did she visit?”

  “What?”

  “Which homes did she—”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. Several. I can’t remember.”

  “Try.”

  “Really…”

  “Try.”

  “Oh, let me see. There was a man in, several months back, had broken h
is leg on the job. Claire took an interest in his family, visited the home, helped the children. Or the beginning of last month, for example. We had a woman in with a ruptured appendix. Quite a mess, believe me. Peritonitis, subdiaphragmatic abscess, the works. She was here quite a while—just released last week, as a matter of fact. Claire got very friendly with her young daughter, a girl of about sixteen. Even kept up her interest after the woman was discharged.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She called her.”

  “The young girl? She called her from here? From the ward?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she talk about?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. I’m not in the habit of listening to other people’s—”

  “How often did she call her?”

  “Well…quite frequently this past week.” McElroy paused. “In fact, the girl called her once. Right here.”

  “She did, huh? What’s the girl’s name?”

  “I don’t know. I can get you the mother’s name. That would be in our records.”

  “Yes, would you please?” Carella said.

  “This is a little unusual, isn’t it?” Meyer asked. “Keeping up contact with a woman’s daughter after the woman’s been released?”

  “No, not terribly unusual. Most social workers do a followup. And as I said, Claire was a very conscientious—”

  “But would you say there was a personal involvement with this young girl?”

  “All of Claire’s involvements—”

  “Please, Dr. McElroy, I think you know what I mean. Was Claire Townsend’s interest in this young girl more than the interest she usually expressed in a patient or the family of a patient?”

  McElroy thought this one over for a few minutes. Then he said, “Yes, I would say so.”

  “Good. May we look at those records now, please?”

  Back at the squad, Detective Hal Willis was studying a necropsy report made on the dead body of Anthony La Scala. The report informed him that the cause of death had been three .45-caliber bullets in the lungs and heart and that death had most probably been instantaneous. But the report also mentioned the fact that both of La Scala’s arms were scarred around the superficial veins on the flexor surface of the forearm and the bend of the elbow. These scars appeared to be short ropelike thickenings of the dermis from three-eighths of an inch to one inch in length and about three-sixteenths of an inch wide. It was the opinion of the medical examiner, strongly bolstered by a large amount of heroin found in La Scala’s blood stream, that the marks on his arms were mainline scars, that La Scala had injected the drug intravenously, and that he had undoubtedly been addicted to the drug for a good long time, judging from the number of scars and the tiny dots arranged seriatim on the thickened areas.