Authors: H. Terrell Griffin
“Yeah, I know him. Didn’t know his name was Logan. Didn’t he just get indicted for killing that chick a month or so back?”
“That’s the one.”
“Man. I never made the connection between this dude and Logan. I knew the chick too.”
“You did?” I was surprised.
“Knew her to see her. She came in a couple of times with your buddy there,” he said, pointing to the picture.
I showed him the picture of Connie. “Is this the woman?”
“Yep. I recognized her picture in the paper when she got killed.”
I remembered that both the Bradenton and Sarasota papers had run pictures of Connie with the story about murder on Longboat Key. I never figured out where they got the picture, but it was the same one in both papers.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Logan in here?”
“Yep.”
“When?” This was getting to be a difficult fact finding mission.
“Are you a cop?”
“No. I’m a just a friend of Logan’s trying to help him out of this jam.”
“The night the chick was murdered.”
“What do you mean?”
He looked at me, exasperated. “That was the last time I saw your buddy.”
“How is it that you remember that?”
“Well, he was drinking double scotches with a buddy, and getting drunk as hell. The buddy left, and he had a couple more and left. A couple days later I saw the picture in the paper and remembered that this guy and the chick would come in together some. It just stuck in my mind that he was here on the same night the chick got killed.”
“Do you know who he was with that night?” I asked.
“Nope. Never saw him before or since. And I got a good memory for faces.”
“Do you remember what time he left?”
“Nope. Is it important?”
“Real important.”
“When was she killed?”
“The night of April 15.”
“Hang on a minute,” he said, and disappeared through a door behind the bar.
I sat, nursing my beer. The old timers hadn’t said a word since I came in, and I don’t think they’d moved either.
Jim came back through the door, holding what appeared to be a receipt. “I remember that your buddy was the last guy out that night, and I locked the door as soon as he left. I always go to the bank next door and deposit the money in the ATM. Here’s the receipt for that deposit.”
I looked at the receipt. It was time stamped for 1:44 A.M., April 16.
“How long was Logan here that night?” I asked.
“Couple of hours, maybe a little longer.”
“Thanks. Can you hold on to this receipt for me? It might be important.”
“I’ve got every receipt I ever got,” he said. “You know, banks will screw you every chance they get.”
I thanked him and left. The old codgers in the corner were as still as stone.
I drove back across the bridge onto Longboat Key, and about four miles further to the Golden Beach Inn. It was not quite 6:00, and I knew the general manager would be having his after-work drink in the bar near the indoor pool. I parked, walked through the lobby and out onto the covered pool deck. The pool bar was suspended above the pool, accessible only by a circular wrought iron staircase. There were two visitors sitting at one end smoking cigars, and a boy of about ten eating a pizza at a table in the corner. One of the men would occasionally look over at the child and say something.
My quarry was at the opposite end of the bar, hunched over a tall glass of amber liquid. He was a big man in a rumpled suit and a five o’clock shadow. He wore a large class ring on his left ring finger, advertising that he had graduated from some Midwestern university known mostly for its football team. He glanced at me as I took the stool next to him.
“Hello, Matt,” he said.
“How you doing, Keith,” I said.
“Not bad. We’ve got the summertime blues around here, but we’re doing better than last year.”
“Good. Did you ever find a replacement for Connie?”
“Yeah. She’s not as good as Connie, but she’s okay. I was surprised to see that Logan killed her.”
“He didn’t Keith,” I said. “He’s been accused, but I don’t think they’ll be able to bring him to trial.”
“Well, all I know is what I read in the paper.”
“That’s not always the best source,” I said. “I want to find Connie’s ex-husband, Keith. Can I have a look at Connie’s personnel file?”
“I don’t see why not. She won’t mind.” Keith Hastings was a dour man who had come to the key a couple of years before to manage the Golden Beach Inn. He did not live on Longboat and had never been friendly with the locals. He had hit on Connie a few times, and once, when Connie ran into him on the mainland in a bar, he had become abusive. He told Connie that she was a goddam tease, and that he was going to have her one way or another. He apologized the next morning, and Connie had let it slide. She said he was a good boss who let her do what she was supposed to do without interfering. That, according to Connie, overcame his occasionally hitting on her.
I had met him a number of times in this very bar, where he came every day that he worked. He would have one drink on the house, drop a two dollar tip for the bartender, and leave. No one knew if he had a social life, but it was rumored that he had left a wife and family somewhere up north.
“It might help me to get a lead on who killed her,” I said. “I think she would have wanted us to do everything we could to clear Logan.”
“Sure,” he said, and finished off his drink in one swallow.
In his office Keith pulled Connie’s personnel file from a large filing cabinet setting against one wall. “You can look through this, and I’ll make you copies of anything you want,” he said.
It was a thin file, containing an application, a letter from the registrar at Northwestern University, attesting that Connie had received a Bachelor’s degree in social work twelve years before. She had gone to work at the Golden Beach four years before, and made $30,000 per year at the time of her death. She received job performance reviews every six months, and both Keith Hastings and his predecessor had given her top marks for a job well done.
“I’d like a copy of her application and the letter from Northwestern,” I said. Do you have anymore information on her in another file, maybe?”
“No, that’s it. We’ve tightened up some on our personnel policies since I took over, but I didn’t bother the employees who were doing a good job. Our later hires have a much more extensive background check.”
“I appreciate this, Keith. Can I buy you a drink?” I asked.
“No thanks. I’ve got to get home. Some other time.”
“Any time, Keith. Thanks again,” I said.
I went back to the bar for another beer, and a little conversation with the bartender whom I had known casually over the years. “Darlene,” I said, “Does Keith ever have more that the one beer here?”
“I’ve seen him drink himself silly on two or three occasions. He was always in a foul mood when he did. Usually, though, he just has the one beer. I think he’s one of those mean drunks who knows it, and usually controls his drinking.”
“When was the last time he got drunk here?”
“Several weeks ago. I don’t remember just when.”
“Anyway to find out? It might be important on a case I’m involved in.”
“Every drink I serve is put into the computer attached to my register. If my computer doesn’t jibe with the number of drinks sold the night before, I’ll hear about it from the food and beverage guys. I can probably figure out the date, because I always put Keith’s drinks under a management category. Let those guys figure out how to charge it.”
She went to her computer terminal and worked the keys. “April 15,” she said. “I remember now, because I thought he was probably pissed about his taxes.”
I sat in my living room, reviewing the application. The sun was setting in the west, casting a burnt orange reflection off the white clouds hanging above the bay. The tide was out, and through the glass doors I could see an egret wading in the shallows looking for a meal. He would stand very still for a long time, and then in the blink of an eye, drop his head into the water, and come up with a small fish in his beak. He would tilt his head, and the fish would slide down his throat. He would be there for hours, I knew. A bird of great patience.
The information on the application was slim. Connie had been born 34 years before in Rockford, Illinois, and graduated from high school there. She had finished Northwestern in four years, and worked for two years for a foundation that ran a homeless shelter in Chicago. She had apparently married then, because for the next six years she listed her occupation as housewife. The Golden Beach manager had not written to the foundation for a recommendation, probably because of the passage of so much time.
In the block for emergency contact, she had written “none” and then explained that her parents were dead and that she had been an only child. She had no known relatives.
I had the feeling that the only person who would have wanted Connie dead was her ex-husband. I knew a little about spouse abusers from past cases, and I knew they were an unwholesome bunch. They were usually on some sort of power trip, and felt that their wives should be under their thumbs at all times. It was not that unusual for a man with a history of abusing his wife to go off the deep end when she screwed up the courage to leave him. A lot of homicides were committed by these men, who felt betrayed by the object of their abuse. This was the reason why most abuse shelters were hidden. The people who ran them were aware of the husband’s propensity for lethal violence and wanted to protect the poor woman.
If Connie’s ex-husband had found out where she was living, he might have come looking for her. It was the only scenario that made sense. Unless Keith was in the picture somehow. He had made a few runs at Connie, and was threatening when drunk. I wondered if there was mere coincidence in his getting drunk on the key on the very night Connie was killed. I didn’t think Connie had any enemies, and I didn’t think Logan killed her, not even by accident during rough sex.
I took off my thinking cap and headed for O’Sullivan’s for a dinner of wings and beer. I know, its not a nutritionally balanced meal.
By the time I finished my jog on the beach and read the paper the next morning, it was almost ten o’clock , nine in Evanston, Illinois. I called the Chicago area information operator. A computer gave me the number of the Alumni office at Northwestern University and informed me that for 85 cents more, it would dial the number. Bad deal. I hung up and dialed the number myself. When you’re retired you have to be careful of these extra little expenses.
When the phone was answered I explained that I was trying to find an address of an alumna and wondered whom I needed to talk to. The young lady on the other end of the phone explained that they did not give out that information, and I asked to talk to whomever was in charge. “That would be Mrs. Cooper,” the voice said, and sent me into the nether world of modern communications. I listened to a Puccini opera coming over the wire until it was abruptly cut off by another voice, “This is Mrs. Cooper.”
“Mrs. Cooper, my name is Matt Royal. I’m a lawyer down in Longboat Key, Florida, and I’m investigating the death of one of your graduates. I was hoping I could get the last address you had for her.”
“Oh my goodness. I’m always sorry to hear that one of our people has passed on. What was his name?”
“Actually, it was a woman named Connie Sanborne. She graduated there about twelve years ago.”
“She was young, then. How did she die, if I might ask?”
“She was murdered, Mrs. Cooper.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m afraid we have rules against giving out the kind of information you’re looking for.”
“I guess that rule is to keep solicitors from bothering alumni, but that won’t be a problem for Connie,” I said.
“Well, Mr. Royal, a rule is a rule, you know. If I broke it for you, I would have to break it for everyone.”
Ah, I thought, the last refuge of the bureaucratic mind. “Would you let me speak to whoever is in charge up there?”
“Why, I’m in charge, sir. I’m the alumni director.”
“Would it help if our chief of police told you about Connie’s murder and vouched for me?”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” she said.
“Would you call him at the station and then call me back?”
“Alright, Mr. Royal. I guess I can do that much.”
I gave her the police department’s number and hung up. She called me back in about twenty minutes.
“I talked to Chief Lester,” she said. “He was very nice and told me I could trust you.”
“Thank you for your effort.”
“I pulled Connie’s file. This is the second time her death was reported, but it was a mistake the first time.”
“That’s odd,” I said. “What was that all about?”
“About four years ago we got a letter from her husband telling us that Connie had died and we should remove her name from our mailing list. A few days later we got a letter from Connie telling us that she had divorced her husband and taken her maiden name back. She also said that if we heard from him that she was dead, not to believe it. She gave us a new address.”
“What was the new address?”
“A post office box in Sarasota, Florida,” Mrs. Cooper said.
“Was Sanborne her maiden name or her married name?”
“Maiden. Her married name was Jarski.”
“Do you have an address for her prior to her divorce?” I asked.
“Yes. Mrs. David Jarski, 418 Linder Street, Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Cooper. You’ve been a great help.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Royal.” She hung up.
I then put in a call to the reference librarian at the Des Moines public library. These people provide a wealth of information if you simply ask. I asked the lady who answered the phone to check the criss-cross directory for me and tell me who lived at 418 Linder St. She put me on hold for a minute and then told me that David and Lisa Jarksi occupied the home in question.
I called Delta and made reservations for a flight from Tampa to Des Moines, with a change of planes in Cincinnati. I would leave the next morning. early. Then I called K-Dawg and told him I would be out of town for a few days. On the island, you never leave without letting someone know. Otherwise, they’d worry.
Years before, a very bright lawyer named Fred Peed, had told me that whether you were a first class lawyer or not, your clients thought you were, and first class lawyers always fly first class. I still subscribed to that bit of philosophy, even though it made no economic sense. In this day of frequent flier mileage everybody flies first class. It is not the luxury it once was, but the seats are bigger and the drinks are free.
I took the airport shuttle van up to Tampa, taking the Sunshine Skyway Bridge across the mouth of Tampa Bay, through St. Petersburg and back across the bay on the Howard Frankland Bridge. Pelicans were diving into the bay for their meals, and I smiled, remembering the story a friend told, of explaining to some Midwesterner that the Pelicans were committing suicide when they dove headfirst into the water.
The Tampa airport is a marvel of passenger amenities, and you never have to walk more than a few feet from parking to plane. We made it in plenty of time, and I boarded after a minimal hassle with the security measures.
The flight was uneventful. I was wearing my lawyerly navy blue pinstriped suit, with a powder blue button-down shirt and a maroon and white striped tie. I always got better service on planes if I dressed the part and rode first class. I know, I’m a little preppie sometimes.
I wasn’t sure exactly how I was going to approach David Jarski. I couldn’t just knock on his door and accuse him of killing his ex-wife. But, he was the best bet I had for the murderer. No one else would have had any motive to kill Connie, and I didn’t think her murder was random. Not with the body showing up at Logan’s apartment.
The only thing I could figure was that Jarski had somehow found Connie on Longboat and had followed her the night of her death. If he had sat outside Moore’s while we had drinks, it would have been no problem to follow her down to the marina. He must have waited there when he saw Logan’s boat come in. Maybe he was just stalking her and had become enraged when he saw Logan having sex with Connie. This would be the kind of thing that could send a batterer into a murderous rage.
I thought that I should use some subterfuge to meet Jarski and get some idea of his movements during the third week of April. If I could put him on Longboat Key during that time, I could make a pretty good case that he murdered Connie. I didn’t have to prove he did it, just prove enough circumstances to put a reasonable doubt in the mind of the jury that tried Logan.
I got to Des Moines shortly after noon and rented a Chevy Cavalier from Hertz. I got directions to the Merle Hays shopping mall from the counter girl at the rental car terminal and headed there. I found what I was looking for in the middle of one of the side concourses of the mall; a machine I had seen in every mall I had ever been in. I put a dollar in and manipulated the touch pad and in a minute had four very professional looking business cards that identified me as Matthew Royal, General Agent of Princeton Insurance Group, with offices on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.
I found Linder Avenue on the city map I purchased at the first gas station I came to after leaving the mall. It was on the north side of town, near Interstate 35, part of a neighborhood probably built before World War II. The houses were mostly bungalows, lining streets shaded by large overhanging Elm trees. The sidewalks were swept clean, except for an occasional tricycle or small metal wagon. It looked like a neighborhood that was being recycled; older people moving on or dying and the younger folks with their kids moving in. It was not a wealthy neighborhood, but it was pleasant in the Spring sun, reflecting low level prosperity and neighborliness.
The Jarski home at 418 was typical of the other houses on Linder Avenue. It had a fresh coat of white paint, and the dark shingle roof seemed fairly new. A long porch ran along the entire front of the house. At one end was an old fashioned porch swing suspended from the ceiling by light chain. There were large flower pots on either side of the front door, filled with a flowering green shrub of some sort. A small bicycle with training wheels sat at the other end of the porch, seemingly unafraid of being stolen. A driveway ran up the side of the house to a single car detached garage at the back of the house. The door was closed, and I could not tell if a car was there.
I parked in front of the house at the curb, and sat for a moment thinking of how to approach a wife killer. It was hard to imagine violence in this quiet neighborhood, and I didn’t think Jarski would kill me on sight. I decided that I looked like an insurance agent, and would just feel him out to start with.
A knock on the driver’s side window startled me. I turned quickly to see an aging lady in a floppy hat, holding a rake and showing a large smile. I rolled the window down. “Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. But Dr. Jarski’s not home.”
“Dr. Jarski?”
“The man who lives here. That’s who you’re looking for isn’t it?”
“I didn’t know he was a doctor.”
“He’s a Ph.D. Teaches history out at the community college. That is who you were looking for, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but I don’t know him. I was hoping to catch him at home.”
“Well, he usually gets in about 3:30. He picks Lisa up at school and comes home.”
“Lisa?” I asked.
“His daughter. She goes to the elementary school over on Redmond St.”
“What time does his wife get home? I’d really like to talk to both of them.”
“Oh, she’s dead, poor thing. About four years now.”
“Did you know her?”
“Connie? Sure, they lived here for a couple of years before she died. She was real sweet. Took good care of her family.”
“I don’t mean to pry. Its none of my business, and I planned to meet with Dr. Jarski about some insurance,” I said. “But, I had the impression that he was married.”
“Nope. I’ve lived right across the street for fifty years. Raised three sons and two daughters in that house. Knew the Popes who lived in the Jarski house for most of those years. He died, and Millie ended up in a nursing home. The Jarskies bought the house when Dr. Jarski got the job out at the college. Came here from Chicago with little Lisa. Then Connie got sick, and it took her two years to die. Breast cancer. What a waste.”
A late model Ford Taurus passed by slowly and turned into the driveway of the Jarski house, stopping just past the sidewalk. A girl of about eight got out of the passenger door and ran toward us.
“Hi Mrs. Gibbs,” she said. “I made an A on my spelling test today.”
“Good for you Lisa,” the elderly lady said. “You’re real smart, just like your daddy.”
A small man in a rumpled suit had got out of the car. He was about five eight and was balding on top. He made up for this with a thick pony tail hanging to his shoulder blades. He wore gold rimmed spectacles and did not look at all like a man who could have beat up Connie Sanborne on a regular basis. She could have taken him with one hand.
I got out of the car, and as he approached, stuck out my hand. “Dr. Jarski? I’m Matt Royal.”
“How do you do Mr. Royal?”
“He came to see you David,” Mrs. Gibbs said. “I was just trying to get out of yard work and was passing the time of day.”
“I enjoyed chatting Mrs. Gibbs. May I have a minute of your time Dr. Jarski?”
“Go ahead,” said Mrs. Gibbs. “I’ve got some fresh lemonade that I’ll bet Lisa would like.”
“Come up on the porch, Mr. Royal,” Jarski said.
Lisa and Mrs. Gibbs crossed to street toward her house, with Lisa talking loud and fast about her school day. We mounted the porch, and Jarski gestured me into the swing. He pulled up a chair facing me, and said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Royal?”
I handed him my card. “I’m with Princeton Insurance Group, and we’re investigating the death of a woman in Florida.”
“How does that concern me?”
“He name was Connie Sanborne. She graduated from Northwestern University twelve years ago, and according to the alumni records, was married to you.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “My wife’s maiden name was Connie Sanborne, and she graduated from Northwestern twelve years ago, but she died of breast cancer four years ago. There must be some kind of mixup.”
“Do you have a picture of her?” I asked.
“Sure. Come on in the house.”
We went through the front door into the 1930s. The room was decorated much like my grandmother’s house in Waycross, Georgia was when I was a child. The dark hardwood floor had two hooked throw rugs in big circular patterns. The sofa was humpbacked and bordered on either end by tables with cloths hanging over the sides. There was an upright Philco radio in one corner and a small writing desk against the wall next to it. On the long wall opposite the front windows sat an upright piano.
“Nice room,” I said.
“I have made a specialty of the study of the years leading up to World War II,” he said. “I often think I was born about fifty years too late. Connie and I liked the 30’s ambience.”
He walked over to the writing desk and picked up an 8 X 10 picture resting in a sterling silver frame. “This was our wedding picture,” he said. “Who would have thought it would have lasted such a short time.”