The Diehard (5 page)

Seven

On the afternoon of December seventeenth, another heavy, gloomy snow fell on Detroit and was ground into gray mush by thousands of tires. The mounted cops of the city's one remaining mounted division clopped carefully up Woodward Avenue toward the stables on Bethune Street. The tops of the Penobscot Building, the Fisher Building and the David Stott were lost in the low overcast.

An old Polish woman in Hamtramck, a city completely enclosed by Detroit, was knocked down in an alley. Her grocery cart was dumped and the bread and eggs stomped. She lay in fear while the boys ransacked her purse. They threw it at her and ran away. She felt lucky.

On the west side, the driver of a semi waited for several minutes on McNichols for a chance to turn onto Livernois. Just when it looked like he would make it at last, a young man in a Corvette cut in front of him and stopped for the traffic light. The trucker leaned out his window and shouted abuse at the Corvette. The young man rolled down his window and made an obscene gesture. That was it for the trucker. He climbed down out of his rig. The young man got a pistol out of his glove compartment. The trucker ran back to his cab for his own pistol. The young man
leaped from his car and raced across the sluggish traffic of Livernois with the truck driver in hot pursuit.

A squad car skidded to a halt and an officer got out and ran after the two armed citizens, his own .38 in his hand. Officer Duncan, driver of the squad car, noticed another man, apparently a bystander, run after the other three. Officer Duncan radioed for help.

The Big Four were cruising on Seven Mile Road when they heard the call: “Man with a gun, McNichols and Livernois, officer needs assistance.” The uniformed driver of the Big Four's Chrysler put his foot down.

Dennis Noell was the honcho of this crew. He was six-five, two hundred forty pounds and had a nose like the prow of a ship. The whole squad was large and intimidating and they carried an armament of axe handles, tommy guns, a Stoner rifle, sawed-off shotguns, and .44 Magnums on their hips. Noell had the Stoner rifle.

They pulled off Livernois just before McNichols when Noell spotted an officer, gun in hand, running down an alley. Noell didn't see the first two men, but he saw the fourth. That man was following the officer and he had a gun.

“What the fuck?” Noell said. He went after the man. When he hit the alley the cop was gone but the man was running. “Stop!” Noell shouted.

The man stopped and turned. He looked back at Noell. “Put it down,” Noell yelled. He held the Stoner to his shoulder.

The man fired a shot at Noell. That was a mistake.

Noell squeezed the trigger on the Stoner. The automatic rifle had a 30-shot clip of 5.56-millimeter cartridges in it. In just over two seconds the clip was empty. A hail of very high-speed, unstable bullets flew down the alley and cut the gunman to pieces.

The young man lost his pursuers, returned to Livernois and escaped in the Corvette. No one got the license number. The truck-driver was not so lucky. Several officers were waiting for him at his rig. Fortunately, he had a valid permit for his .32 automatic. He was cited for blocking traffic and menacing the public safety.

Officer Duncan was trying to explain to Noell what had happened. “Who is this one?” Noell asked, pointing with the Stoner in one large hand at the crumpled corpse.

“I don't know,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I never saw him before.”

Mulheisen was sitting in McClain's office at Headquarters. Headquarters was busy. The broad hallways smelled of wet wool. Few people looked happy, including the cops. The police asked parents and sons to step into their offices for a minute; they leaned over counters and asked questions; they walked down the hallways with files in hand, carrying plastic-foam cups of coffee; they said “Hiya, Irv,” and Irv said, “ ‘Lo, Bob, Jim.”

McClain had his giant feet on his desk. The desk was covered with memos and files and letters. The In-Out baskets were jammed. He was listening to Mulheisen tell about his interview with Lou Spencer. “Jesus,” he said, when Mulheisen had finished, “she sounds like a cross between a saint and a nympho.”

“I didn't get that impression,” Mulheisen said. “You're just old-fashioned.”

“Bullshit! Any broad who goes into strange bars cruising is a tramp.”

Mulheisen shook his head. “The Spencer gal seemed to think it was more of a youthful fling, maybe like a young stud who discovers he can score with women so he goes wild for a while. An ego thing. It's like Lou said, she enjoyed her power over men.”

“Lou, is it? Better watch yourself, Fang.” He laughed and sat up, dropping his feet to the floor with a crash. “Okay,” he said, “I'll leave that up to you. I got everything else straightened out. Don't worry about Buchanan. He doesn't know anything and doesn't need to know anything. I'm fronting the whole investigation. Just like always. I talk to the press, I talk to the prosecutor, I talk to the commissioner, the mayor, whoever. You go do your job, but let me know how things are going.

“Now, about this sainted tramp, despite what you say I think I'll have my boys check out her neighbors on strange men coming at odd hours, that sort of thing. And we'll ask around in the bars, see if she was up to her old tricks. I'll let you know how that comes out. You didn't find out what bars she might hang out in, did you?”

Mulheisen shook his head. “Lad, that's a waste of time.”

“So? We'll try it anyway. Listen, Mul, it's important that we
score an early bust on this. Clippert is big stuff. And a lot of strange people are interested in what's going on.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got calls today from the U.S. Attorney's office, from the FBI, from the SEC, from the Michigan Insurance Commission—”

“What? What's all this?”

“Mul, you ever heard of Arthur Clippert before?”

Mulheisen shook his head.

“I'm disappointed,” McClain said. “I thought you were an intelligent man, the kind of guy who reads the paper from front to back every day. At least you read the sports pages, don't you? You ever hear of the Flying Clipper?”

“Oh, sure,” Mulheisen said. “So that's him. Yeah, halfback for Michigan. All-American.”

“Right,” McClain said. “But you know who else he is? Here, read this.” He handed Mulheisen the morning
Free Press
folded open to the story on the Fidelity Funding scandal. Mulheisen read the article.

“Very complicated swindle they pulled over there,” McClain said. “It involved a lot of computer diddling, a lot of fast talking and a lot of smart planning. The federal grand jury has indicted a whole shitpot of them, but they haven't been able to touch Clippert yet, even though the U.S. Attorney hinted to me that the Flying Clipper was the biggest fish of them all.”

“What makes him so golden?” Mulheisen asked.

“I'm glad you asked,” McClain said. “You know what the take was over there? No? The feds don't know either. They haven't been able to untangle the computer yet. But so far, they think it might go to twenty million dollars.”

“Dollars?”

“Moola, mazooma, gelt, shekels, bucks. Twenty million. And no one—I repeat, no one—will say a word against the chief counsel of the corporation, the honorable All-American. The federal attorney says, but not out loud, that the reason no one will implicate Clippert is because Clippert is the bagman.”

“So,” Mulheisen said, “a number of people are looking at jail
terms and the only guy who can bankroll their defense is Clippert, and nobody wants to annoy his banker.”

“Plus,” McClain said, “they know they won't be in the can forever and when they come out—in six months, eighteen months, five years, whatever—the twenty big ones will still be there and their faithful banker will be making discreet deposits in discreet accounts—”

“If he's still around,” Mulheisen said.

“Oh, he'll be around. It's a two-way street. If he doesn't come through for his clients they could have him inside so fast the snow wouldn't melt on his galoshes. But for now, they're like a deaf-and-dumb choir. And don't think the feds haven't been on them. They've got some promising candidates, about twenty of them. They've got executives, secretaries, a computer programmer—he was the genius, I guess. The feds have offered immunity, reduced sentences, everything. The grand jury is going nuts. Not a sound from the choir.”

Mulheisen lit a cigar.

“That the only one of them things you got?” McClain asked.

Mulheisen dug out another one.

“But we still have a murder, Lad,” Mulheisen said. “What's the connection between Fidelity Funding and the murder? Or are you still thinking it was a simple burglary that went haywire?”

“Twenty million dollars is a very strong motive for murder, Mul. Say you stage a fake burglary and then score Clippert's old lady . . .”

“But why, Lad?”

McClain shrugged. “Who knows, at this point? Maybe somebody knows that Clippert is trying to pull a fast one, skip country or something. Maybe it's a shakedown by the Mob. The Mob hears about an unattached twenty million floating around, they'll get on it quick, like Tom Mix on Tony.”

“And what if Clippert is innocent in the Fidelity Funding case?”

Laddy McClain's face was contorted in scorn. “Shit. And double shit.” He laid his hands palms down on the littered desk and puffed out a billow of cigar smoke. “Here's what we got,” he said.
“We got a corpse, a ton of unfinished lab work, no autopsy yet, and no witnesses. But we think it was just one guy did it.”

“How do you figure that?” Mulheisen asked.

“Footprints in the snow. A single set of them in fresh snow leading out the back door of the garage, across the yard and down the alley. He fell down at least once and there was blood. He was headed toward Kercheval. The boys are canvassing up there. There's a drugstore, a restaurant, a couple of record shops. Somebody must have seen something. He had to hail a cab, or take a bus, or maybe he had a car there.”

“Or maybe he lived around there,” Mulheisen said.

“That too,” McClain said.

“By the way, where is Clippert?” Mulheisen asked.

McClain looked at his watch. “He's home,” he said, “waiting for us.”

Eight

There was still blood on the wall of the living room, where Jane Clippert had staggered through en route to the Mercers’. But the lights had been turned low in that room and there was little evidence of the tragedy that had taken place that morning. They went into the study, a large and handsome room near the rear of the house. The walls were lined with bookcases. A fire burned in a brick fireplace that had a raised hearth.

Arthur Clippert looked only slightly weakened by grief and shock. He sat in a large chair, smoking a briar pipe, a balloon glass of brandy on a table at his side. The two detectives also held drinks. McClain was sprawled on a black leather couch, but Mulheisen preferred to lean against a bookcase, facing Clippert's chair.

“You don't have a regular maid,” Mulheisen said.

“No, just a cleaning lady . . . well, more like a general house-keeper. She cooks sometimes and does things on special occasions. But today was one of her regular days off, unfortunately. If only she'd been here!”

McClain asked for her name and some particulars. Clippert went on to assure him that she was completely trustworthy.

“Your wife ever receive any threatening phone calls?” Mulheisen
asked. “Or mention any suspicious characters hanging about? Anything unusual at all like that, lately?”

Clippert puffed on his pipe and frowned. “No, nothing like that. You don't suspect . . . it was some kind of freak? Some sex . . . fiend?”

“We haven't gotten complete lab reports, yet,” McClain said, “but initial indications are that there was no sexual assault or anything of that kind. We're not thinking anything at all at this point, Mr. Clippert. We're just covering all the bases.”

Clippert picked up his brandy glass and stared down into it. “She was a hell of a woman, gentlemen. One hell of a woman.”

His words made Mulheisen uneasy. They had already established that Clippert had left his home well before eight, in order to make the eight-fifty flight to New York. A preliminary report from the pathologists posed some difficulties, in that while the time of death was accurately established as eight fifty-five, it appeared that the fatal wounds had been inflicted more than just a few moments earlier. There was a significant amount of congealing and healing already in progress at the time of death. Obviously, it was possible that Clippert could have left his wife for dead and gone on to the airport. Neither Mulheisen nor McClain believed that that had happened.

“She wasn't just a woman of uncommon beauty,” Clippert said, “but a woman of integrity and courage. She had a kind of inner beauty.”

Mulheisen raised an eyebrow and glanced over at McClain.

“What kind of life did she lead, Mr. Clippert?” Mulheisen asked.

“It was a happy life, I'd say. Basically a life of leisure, of course. She had many friends, most of them the wives of my friends. I could give you a list. She was not indolent, however. She involved herself in various community projects. She was a sportswoman. We traveled a good deal. In the winter, naturally, she was home more. She liked to read. And she liked to ski. We have a place up north, not far from Boyne Mountain. It's really more of a summer place, belonged to her father, but we used to go there in winter as well, to ski. Sometimes we went out west, to Aspen. We
were . . . well, we had planned to go skiing in Utah next month, at Alta. She was looking forward to that.”

“That reminds me,” Mulheisen said, “ah, some of my questions may seem a little, ah, indelicate, but they have to be asked.”

“I understand,” Clippert said. He smiled encouragingly. “I want you to be able to do the best job you can in catching these—these vermin. So ask ahead.”

“Well, it's about her inheritance,” Mulheisen said.

“Oh, yes. As a lawyer, of course, I am quite familiar with these matters. Jane had made a will. Except for some minor bequests I am her sole heir—as she was in mine. She was a wealthy woman. Not a millionairess, but wealthy. In another year or so she would have become quite wealthy, thanks to the provisions of her father's will. But that is out, now. It's my understanding that her prospective fortune will revert to a kind of charity.”

“What charity?” Mulheisen asked.

Clippert smiled grimly. “My wife's father was perhaps a bit eccentric,” he said. “He fancied himself a sportsman. Therefore the bulk of the fortune goes to Ducks Unlimited.”

“Ducks Unlimited?” McClain said. “What the hell . . .?”

“It's a nonprofit organization devoted to the conservation and welfare of migratory waterfowl, I believe,” Clippert said.

There was a moment of silence, then Mulheisen said, “Well, I have to go on with the, ah, difficult questions. Would you characterize your marriage as a happy one, Mr. Clippert?”

Clippert set his pipe down and picked up the brandy glass again. He swirled the brandy, then sipped. He looked up at Mulheisen and said, “Yes, it was, Sergeant. But let me ask you a question. Are you married?”

“No,” Mulheisen said.

“Every marriage has problems, Sergeant,” he said. “Sure, we had problems. But we had, I think, an unusually open and very strong personal relationship. We talked things out. It wasn't always easy. I suppose you're aware that I've had a rather difficult time lately?”

“How's that?” Mulheisen asked.

“You haven't heard about Fidelity Funding? I thought everybody had by now, thanks to the media. It's a corporation for which
I was once counsel. Due to a rather spectacular bankruptcy, the corporation and many of the people most prominently connected with it have come under considerable investigation. There's nothing to the allegations, I assure you, at least not as far as I am involved. But, there it is. I don't blame the authorities. It's their function to monitor and regulate this sort of thing. Just as it is your function to find and prosecute the filthy scum who did this terrible thing to my wife.

“But let me tell you gentlemen, throughout all this difficulty Jane was a tower of strength to me, and it won't be easier now that she's . . . she's gone. So ask your questions. It's just tough for me, that's all. Well, I think I can take it.”

“I'm sure you can, sir,” McClain said blandly.

“Was your wife ever involved with any other men, Mr. Clippert?” Mulheisen asked quietly.

It was obvious that Clippert was fighting to maintain his calm. His face flushed and he glanced over at McClain. He drank off the remaining brandy in his glass.

“I think I understand the motive for that question, Sergeant,” he said. “But there is only one answer I can, in conscience, give: my wife was a faithful wife.”

In the car, Mulheisen said to McClain, “A real smoothie, that one.”

“Pretty smooth yourself,” McClain grunted. “For a minute I thought he was gonna dent those fangs of yours. But you're right. He's too damn smooth.”

“What do you think,” Mulheisen said, “maybe I ought to have Ayeh keep an eye on him.” McClain agreed.

On his way home, Mulheisen stopped at the precinct and caught Ayeh before he left. “Just watch the place,” he told the young detective. “When he goes to bed, or it looks like he's in for the night, you can knock off. I'll try to get you some relief, so you can do it in easy shifts.”

Mulheisen's way home took him by the Spencer place on Lakeside Drive. He thought about Lou Spencer. He wondered if he ought to call her. She had a nice build, all right, he told himself.

There was another note waiting for him on the refrigerator door, informing him that there was chicken salad, ham and deviled
eggs, and that his mother had gone to a meeting and would be home late.

He made himself a sandwich and opened a bottle of beer. The Detroit
News
had a front-page story on what they called the “Indian Village Murder.” The reporter had quickly made a connection with the Fidelity Funding scandal, but not in any direct or causatory way. The press seemed to accept the official line of Inspector McClain that the crime appeared to be the work of a housebreaker who had been caught in the act. There was an attempt to inject a sex angle, since the victim was beautiful and had been found nude. The paper carefully avoided any notion of a racial aspect. Detroit had had enough of race trouble.

Also in the paper was a bizarre story about citizens and cops pursuing one another with drawn guns. It had ended badly for one of the participants.

Mulheisen went up to his room and sprawled across his bed with a half-finished book, Morison's
Admiral of the Ocean Sea
, a biography of Columbus. He fell asleep at the point where the Great Discoverer had left Isabella's court with his final rejection of the proposed voyage to the East, only to be called back before he had gone five miles down the road.

Mulheisen was on muleback in deep snow, pursuing a figure in black. The snow was spotted with blood. And then he himself was pursued. Looking over his shoulder he could see that it was a woman, but she had no face. And then the face itself became detached and loomed closer. He could almost recognize it.

His mother stood over him, shaking him.

“What the hell . . .?” he said, rubbing his eyes. He lay on the bed fully clothed. His mother had already changed into a flannel nightgown.

“You were talking in your sleep,” she said.

“Oh yeah? What did I say?”

“Something about a black glove,” she said, “and then a woman. Who is the woman?”

“I don't know any women. Not any women you want to know about,” he said. “Get out of here and let me undress.”

She came back when he was ready for bed. She sat down on the bed, a slim woman of sixty-five, with long teeth.

“See lots of birds?” her son asked.

“Not many,” she said. “A handful of chickadees, and oh, yes, a purple finch. It was much too cold.”

“So, what do you do it for?”

“It's absurd, I suppose. But that's bird watching for you. It gets obsessive. Every little flicker of a shadow past the window gets you running around with binoculars. You just can't bear not to know what species it might be. Why, it might be a purple finch, or even a Northern shrike. It was nice seeing the purple finch today, even if I almost froze. Something new for my Life List.”

“Ma, you're nuts.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But not really. I've been thinking . . .”

“What?” he said.

She laid a bony finger along her bony jaw and looked like a parody of Thought. “Do you suppose,” she said, “that you could get along by yourself here for a week or so?”

“Now what? You going on a survival hike?”

She hurried on. “No, I've been looking at those TV commercials, the one where they show a big jet taking off into the sun and a voice says, ‘It's ten o'clock, folks, and another Delta Fan-Jet is on its way to Miami.’ They have a flight every hour, Mul.” She was suddenly protesting. “It's just too darn cold to be bird watching in Michigan. I understand that they also have birds in Miami.”

Mulheisen laughed aloud. “What have I been saying?”

But she wasn't listening to him. She was detailing how she could arrange for him to have dinner every night of the week with a different old friend of hers, and someone would come in to clean . . .

“Ma, it's all right. I'm nearly forty years old. I can hack it on my own. Go to Florida. Go tomorrow.”

“I was thinking about leaving tomorrow,” she said. “But then, oh, Mul, it would be the first time we didn't have Christmas together, except when you were in the Air Force. And I haven't put up any decorations yet. I haven't even bought your present. I'd better wait until after Christmas.”

“You can't,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Cause that's my present to you. A ticket to Miami.”

“You won't have any orgies here, will you?”