Leopold's Way (26 page)

“I suppose he wasn't killed on the expressway. The killer drove him there and pushed him behind the wheel and left him. The knife could be anywhere.”

“That could be it, Captain.” He started to leave and then remembered something. “I've got David Thorn outside. Want to see him?”

“Who?”

“Thorn. The salesman whose car was stolen.”

Leopold nodded. “Send him in.” There was always an angle to be checked. Thorn and Rossiter might have met in a bar, got into a violent quarrel, and Thorn might have stabbed him and then lied about the car having been stolen. There had been a case like that a few years earlier.

“Sit down, Mr. Thorn. This won't take long.”

David Thorn was tall and almost handsome. But he was just about over the hill—hair thin to the point of baldness, pouch beginning to show up front. The easy life at middle age.

“Just who are you a salesman for, Mr. Thorn?”

“Ritto Products. School supplies, teaching machines. We're coming out with a low-priced copying machine in the fall.”

“Isn't this the wrong time of year for it?”

“On the contrary, this is when they buy for the fall semester.”

“Ever call on accountants?”

“No.”

Leopold grunted. It had been a passing idea, no more. “What about your car that was stolen, Mr. Thorn? When did you notice it missing?”

“I didn't. Not until the police phoned and woke me up this morning to ask about it. They'd traced the license number through Ohio and found out from my wife where I was staying here.”

“It was taken from the motel parking lot?”

“That's right. Last night I drove around town and went to an early movie. I was back in my motel room by ten thirty.”

“So it was taken some time after that.”

The salesman nodded his balding head. He seemed eager enough to cooperate, and Fletcher said, “Show the Captain your mileage record, Mr. Thorn.”

“Oh, yes! I almost forgot. I keep this for tax purposes.” He pulled out a little notebook and flipped through the ruled pages. “The odometer reading was 11,362 when I parked it last night.”

Sergeant Fletcher flipped open his own book. “And when it was found on the expressway the odometer read 11,369. The car was driven seven miles after it was stolen.”

Leopold nodded. “I see what you mean. The distance from the motel to the expressway is only a little over one mile. So the car was driven somewhere else first.”

Fletcher nodded. “Now if only we knew where.”

“How about Rossiter's apartment?”

“I'll check it.”

Leopold rose and shook hands with Thorn. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir. We'll need your car just a little longer to complete some tests, and then it will be released to you.”

He saw the man to the door and went back to his desk. After a while Fletcher returned. “The newspapers want a statement, Captain. They want to know if it's true we're releasing Fleming.”

“Sergeant Fleming will be released from custody this evening, but he still faces departmental charges.”

“If we announce that, we have to tell the papers that Rossiter was already dead.”

“Go ahead. The real killer knows it anyway.”

Fletcher nodded. Then, after a moment, he asked, “Captain, why do you think the killer left the car on the expressway? It's a wonder somebody didn't pull up and find the body right away. Whoever left the car had to run through the grass and hop a five-foot fence to get away.”

“Unless there was another car.”

“Two people?”

“It's happened before.”

Fletcher thought about that. “Maybe Rossiter didn't realize how badly he was hurt. Maybe he drove that far alone, on his own, and then suddenly pulled over on the shoulder and died. You said the wound was a narrow one.”

“Narrow, but straight into the heart. He didn't drive anywhere after that.”

Fletcher looked unhappy, reflecting Leopold's mood. It was a black eye for the department, no matter how you looked at it, and with each hour they seemed to be drawing further away from a solution. “I never saw a case like it,” Leopold grumbled. “At the start it was solved, and now it's unsolved and we're nowhere.”

“Do you want to see Fleming again before he's released?”

Leopold considered for a few moments. “Yes. And get his wife back here. I want some answers from both of them.”

“Right, Captain. Oh, by the way, I checked a city map. Rossiter's apartment is just under three miles from the Charles Motel.”

“Good. Get over there and search the place. Look for signs of a struggle, a bloody knife, anything.”

“Why would somebody kill him there and then cart him off to the expressway?”

“I don't know. But I want to find out if that's what really happened.”

Leopold had been alone for another ten minutes when a uniformed patrolman poked his head into the office. “Ah, Captain?”

“Yes?”

“I'm Officer Abbot. I patrol the expressway nights—the expressway and that end of the city.”

Leopold came alert. “Yes?” The man obviously had something to say, but still he hesitated. “What's it about—the Rossiter murder?”

“Well, it might be, Captain.”

“Get to the point.”

“We had a call about one o'clock—somebody reported a body on the expressway.”

“At one this morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Man or woman?”

“The officer who took the call couldn't be sure. Husky voice. Anyway, they dispatched my car to have a look. I only went to the city line, of course, and I didn't see any body. So I reported that it must have been a crank call and forgot about it. Gosh, Captain, we get crank calls all the time! One night they told me there was a flying saucer landed out there, with men from outer space!”

Leopold leaned across the desk. “Are you telling me that the car with Rossiter's body wasn't there at one o'clock?”

Officer Abbot seemed to shrivel. “No, Captain. It was there, all right, because I remember seeing it. But I was looking for a body
on
the road—I thought that's what the caller had meant! I saw the car, and the guy sitting behind the steering wheel, and I remembered thinking that I'd go back and check him out if I didn't find anything. It wasn't too unusual, though, because that time of night drivers are always pulling over to doze for a few minutes. He was off the road, not harming anybody. Anyway, I got another call and didn't go back.”

“You're sure it was the murder car?”

“I remember the Ohio plates.” He quickly added, “It hadn't been reported stolen then.”

“All right,” Leopold said. “Thanks for telling me now anyway.”

“Does it help any, Captain?”

“Maybe.”

Alone once more, Leopold stared out at the city and thought about the case. Here and there, lights were beginning to come on in office buildings, although darkness was still two hours away. He picked up Fleming's personnel file and stared hard at the photo of the man he'd worked with for so many years.

Roger Fleming, detective sergeant.

Then, after a time, he knew what he had to do.

The lights were on in his office when Roger Fleming appeared at the door. He cleared his throat and waited until Leopold looked up, then said, “They're letting me go, but I understood you wanted to see me first.”

“Yes, Roger. Sit down, will you?” Leopold motioned to a chair. “Iris is on her way here too. I just wanted to ask a few final questions.”

“Iris?” He frowned nervously. “Why drag her into it again?”

“She's into it already, Roger. We know about her relationship with the murdered man.”

Sergeant Fletcher came in then, looking tired. It had been a long day for them all. He dropped into the other chair with a sigh. “Still hot out there. Isn't cooling off a bit.”

“Did you examine the apartment?”

Fletcher nodded. “Nothing there. No sign of a weapon.”

The phone buzzed, announcing Iris Fleming, and Leopold ordered her sent in. She too looked tired, and hadn't bothered to renew her eye makeup. It was the end of the day for all of them.

“Are you ready to go home?” she asked her husband.

“I'm ready.”

Leopold cleared his throat, hating what he had to do. “One moment, please. As you know, Roger, you still face departmental charges. You attempted murder, and the fact that your victim was already dead does not greatly alter the situation from the department's point of view. I think I can safely say that you're finished as a detective.”

“I suppose so,” Fleming mumbled.

“And there's more, because we still have a case to close. There's still the real murderer of Norman Rossiter to be brought to justice.”

“Have you found him?” Roger Fleming asked.

“I think so.” Leopold leaned back in his chair, trying to keep his eyes off Iris Fleming. “You wouldn't tell us how you knew the car was parked there on the expressway, but of course there's only one way you could have known—only one way, Roger, you could know just where to find Rossiter at two in the morning. And that's if the real murderer told you. But if the murderer told you that Rossiter was in the car on the expressway, not going anywhere, you must also have known he was dead—or at least dying. It doesn't make any sense any other way.”

“What are you driving at?” Iris asked.

“Only that Roger must have known Rossiter was dead or dying when he fired those shots. Which means he didn't fire them to
kill
Rossiter. He fired them to protect the real murderer. What person would have told him about the killing, told him where to find the car? Who was he trying to protect by taking the blame on himself? No one but his wife. You, Iris. You killed your lover.”

“No!” Her hand had flown to her mouth.

Leopold turned back to Roger. “The deception is over, Roger. You can't shield her any longer.”

Roger Fleming, his face white as chalk, slowly nodded. “You're right, of course. I thought I could take the blame on myself. You're right. Yes, she killed him.”

It was then that Iris moved, springing like a tigress. She screamed and leaped at her husband, clawing at his face.

Fletcher was closest. He grabbed her around the waist and hung on.

Leopold gazed out over the city, seeing only the night lights now. It had been a long hard day, and his vision tended to blur a bit when he was overtired.

“We've got her calmed down at last,” Fletcher said from the door. “God, she was like a madwoman!”

Leopold nodded. “She had reason to be.”

Roger Fleming was still in his chair. He hadn't moved since her outburst. Now he started to rise. “I'd better be getting home. The children—”

Leopold said nothing. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out one of the familiar manila envelopes they all used to store evidence. He unclasped it and tipped it upside down. There was a clatter as a narrow-bladed kitchen knife fell out and hit the desk.

Roger Fleming turned his eyes on it, as if seeing it for the first time. “What's that?” he asked.

“The weapon that killed Norman Rossiter. Also the weapon that Mrs. Croft used to stab her husband. I thought you'd have the decency to confess when I accused Iris, but you played it to the bitter end, didn't you?”

“You're accusing me again?”

“Roger, Roger, why in hell did you do it? A smart cop like you, and you let yourself get into a mess like this! Was it worth it, just to kill your wife's lover?”

“I was on duty when Rossiter was killed,” he said, but his voice was beginning to crack. “I've got an alibi!”

“Your alibi isn't worth beans, Roger. The lab tests will show two different blood types on this knife blade, and when we start pinning down your exact movements before midnight, we'll find some pretty big gaps. You were called to the investigation of the Croft stabbing, and you found yourself suddenly in a perfect situation for yourself. You had a murder weapon which had already been used for one stabbing, and an hour's time or more for establishing another alibi. After all, what better place to hide a murder weapon than with the evidence of a totally different crime?”

Roger Fleming stirred and glanced at Fletcher, whose face was impassive. They'd both gone through these final moments with Leopold so many times that now it seemed unreal with Fleming as the accused. Finding him at the car with a gun was one thing, but revealing him as a carefully calculating killer was something much more sinister.

“Supposedly you spent nearly two hours questioning neighbors of the Crofts,” Leopold continued, “which was a long time for a simple family-trouble call. That made me suspicious from the start, and then I discovered that the Charles Motel was within walking distance of the Croft place. You talked to a few neighbors, then left your car parked where it was and walked to the motel. You stole the salesman's car, drove to Rossiter's apartment, killed him with the same knife that Mrs. Croft had used, and then drove the dead body to the expressway. You left it there, hopped the fence, and walked back to the Croft place—a distance of only a mile. The neighbors thought you'd been there all the time, questioning people.”

“Why did he leave the body on the expressway?” Fletcher asked. “I don't understand that part. And why did he go back to it two hours later?”

“That was the key to the whole case. The body was left on the expressway simply so that it would be quickly found—soon enough to make Roger's alibi still valid. As a detective himself, he was well aware of autopsy results, and of the fact that the longer a body goes undiscovered the harder it is to fix the precise time of death.

“He figured someone would stop and find the body right away, but nobody did. Cars kept passing and nobody stopped. You must have sweated out that hour, Roger, back at headquarters waiting for the report that never came in. You had to establish Rossiter's death as before midnight, in order to be in the clear. You couldn't hang around headquarters all night being seen by people.”