Barry Friedman - Dead End (21 page)

The TV set in the corner of the small lounge of
Stark County Sheriff’s Office was tuned to the 5 o’clock news. Maharos and
Vandergrift watched in silence, reports of the hijacked plane, still on the
ground in Libya where no one seemed to know what to do about the hostages and
their captors. An update of the bus-auto collision between Akron, Canton and
Youngstown took up most of the remainder of the half-hour telecast. They
listened to interviews with injured victims in their hospital beds, family
members of several who had been killed and with police officials still trying
to piece together the cause of the tragic accident.

Vandergrift said, “They’ll probably go through
the sports and weather before they get to Rankins.”

Maharos said, “If they get to Rankins. A week ago
I was trying to keep these news monkeys off my back. Now where are they when
you need them?”

Vandergrift held up a hand. “I think this is it.”

The blond anchorman with sensuous lips appeared
on the screen. “Law enforcement agencies in northeast Ohio are attempting to
locate and question a 32-year-old man in connection with a series of unsolved
murders that go back to early this year.” The mug shot of Rankins filled the
screen. “Ephraim Rankins, formerly a patient-inmate at Oakwood Forensic Center
for the Criminally Insane, and is now believed to be in this area, is wanted
for questioning in the killings of George Horner, a Youngstown attorney; Henry
Gibson, a Canton wholesale hardware salesman; and Frank Burnstein, a male nurse
who had been employed at Mercy Hospital in Canton. In a press conference held
by Youngstown Chief of Police Bennett Atwell, he intimated that there might be
a connection with at least three additional homicides.”

The picture on the screen shifted to the
interview with Maharos in Atwell’s office. The reporter’s overvoice said,
“Detective Alex Maharos, who served as spokesman for the Youngstown Police,
would not say whether or not Rankins was a suspect in the killings.”

MAHAROS: “Mr. Rankins is known to have some
connection with several of the victims, but at this time we are not accusing
him of any crimes.”

Rankins’ picture was shown again.

MAHAROS (overvoice): “If anyone knows of Mr.
Rankins’ present whereabouts, we would like them to contact any of the law
enforcement agencies…”

*
  
*
  
*

In the office of Hartman’s Ambulance Service in
Massillon, Ohio, John Henderson was alone, sprawled out on a lounge chair in
front of the TV set. He was dressed in white from his jacket to his shoes.
Henderson drove ambulance for Hartman’s. The other member of his crew was
across the street having supper.

Henderson was waiting for the sportscaster to
come on with the daytime baseball scores. Today, he had his sawbuck riding on
the Red Sox against the Yankees. He listened without interest while the
announcer went on about some Arab nuts grabbing a plane. Shit, that was news?
Happened every other day it seemed.

He paid a little more attention when the car-bus
accident was shown. He recognized the intersection. They should have a four-way
stop sign instead of the stop sign on 14. He wondered who got the ambulance
calls on that one. Probably the larger outfits out of Akron or Canton.

Rankins’ picture appeared on the screen and
Henderson’s eyes opened wide. The face was familiar. He sat on the edge of the
chair, now listening to the words of the announcer and the interview with
Maharos. I know that guy, he thought. When Rankins’ face appeared for the
second time, he said aloud, “Jesus Christ!” He snapped his fingers and spoke
again to the empty room. “Peterson’s.” He reached for the phone book.

*
  
*
  
*

The paging speaker in Stark County Sheriff’s
Headquarters intoned Vandergrift’s name. She answered using the phone in the
lounge.

The operator said, “Are you taking the calls on
Rankins?”

She acknowledged.

On the line was Sergeant Laufer of the Massillon
Police Department. He said he had just received the call from Henderson
identifying Rankins. He told Vandergrift, “He says the guy is called Wiliams.
One ‘L.’ Works for Peterson’s Mortuary here in Massillon. You can call
Henderson at this number for more information.” He gave her a phone number.

Vandergrift thanked him and hung up. “We may have
something, Al. Take the other extension.”

Henderson was waiting for the call. Vandergrift
identified herself. “I understand you think you know the man we’re looking
for.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure it’s the same guy who
works for Peterson’s Funeral Home. I’ve seen him several times when I’ve
delivered bodies to the place. I drive ambulance for Hartman’s. Only the guy’s
name is Wiliams, or something like that.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“Well, he’s a little squirt—almost like a midget,
know what I mean? Doesn’t say much. Little funny that way.”

Maharos, his ear to the extension phone, wagged
his head.

Vandergrift said, “Okay, we’ll check on the
information. We appreciate your help.”

She started to hang up when she heard Henderson’s
voice, still on the line. “Hey!”

“What?”

“Is there any reward?”

Vandergrift glanced over at Maharos. He shook his
head.

“No, I’m sorry. But your action as a responsible
citizen is greatly appreciated.”

“Sure. Thanks a lot.”

*
  
*
  
*

At 5:15 p.m., Rankins knocked on the door of
Peterson’s office and stuck his head in the door. “I’m finished downstairs.
Okay if I take off?”

Jason Peterson, seated at his desk, glanced up.
“Okay, Jackson. Goodnight. See you tomorrow.”

Rankins hesitated at the door. “I’m off tomorrow,
remember? I switched from last Sunday.”

Peterson’s brows knit. “Oh?”

“I worked last Sunday. You said I could have
Tuesday off.”

Peterson nodded, remembering. “You’re right. See
you Wednesday.”

Rankins walked the two and one-half blocks to the
garage that housed his van and drove it out.

The sun, starting to dip toward the western
horizon, still shone brightly. He turned south along the Tuscarawas River, past
the Waste Water Treatment Plant. The 10-mile drive to Interstate 77 took him
less than fifteen minutes. He was now in Canton. As he approached the on-ramp
to the freeway, he slowed, then turned off on a side street. He debated whether
or not to pass the doctor’s office once again. Decided he had no need. He had
done his surveillance well the previous week. He drove on to Whipple Road,
reaching its intersection with the I 77 on-ramp. This time he drove on to the
freeway. Continued unhurriedly past the Akron-Canton Airport. At State Route
173 he left the freeway and drove east for another three miles. He was now in
open country, fields with scattered patches of woods, weathered barns, farm
houses. A narrow dirt road appeared, leading into a densely wooded area. There
were no signs or other markings to identify the dirt road. He steered the van
on to the road, stopped and set the dashboard odometer to zero. For the last
four minutes he had passed no vehicles.

The dirt road, barely wide enough for the van was
deeply rutted and clumps of weeds poked out of the earth. Fifty yards farther
on, the road made a gentle bend so the paved county road behind him, was no
longer visible.

He crept along at less than five miles an hour,
following tire tracks that his van had made when he had explored the road two
days before. At one point he got out and examined the tracks, was satisfied
that there were no fresh marks over the ones he had made before. Two days ago,
when he had first scouted the area, he had driven along the dirt road to its
terminus, two miles further on. It led to a pile of charred wood and an open pit
lined with a few cement blocks, the foundation of a small, burned-out
farmhouse.

Now, he checked his odometer, decided he did not
have to go any further. Trees and thick bushes surrounded him. A few yards
further on, he came to a place where there was enough room on either side of
the road to turn the van around so it faced the way he had come in.

He climbed into the back of the van and slid the
side door open. The rays of fading sunlight that filtered through the forest,
reflected on the bright chrome handlebars of the motorcycle that leaned against
a wall inside the van. He lifted a wide plank from the floor and placed it from
the doorway to the ground, so it served as a ramp. He carefully guided the
motorcycle on to the ramp and standing alongside, balanced it the short
distance to the ground.

He walked alongside the cycle, steering it
through narrow gaps in the underbrush, moving away from the van, until he was
twenty yards from the road. He placed the cycle on its side under a bush and
went back to the van for a black plastic tarp, which he used to cover the
motorcycle. He scattered loose branches and leaves on the tarp and stood back
examining it, satisfied that his cache was well hidden. He’d be back for the
cycle tomorrow—but not in the van. Tomorrow he’d be here as a passenger guiding
his driver along the dirt road. Prodding the back of his head with the barrel
of his gun.

Dusk was rapidly settling as he started the van
and slowly drove out of the woods. When he reached the paved county road, he
drove toward the freeway, but stopped after he had gone a hundred yards. He got
out and walked back to the dirt road carrying with him a whiskbroom. He used
the broom to obliterate his tire tracks for ten yards into the dirt road. He
retraced his steps to the paved road walking alongside the dirt road to avoid
leaving footprints.

Ephraim Rankins hummed and he talked to his
invisible friends in the back of the van as he drove back to Massillon.

He was already feeling the flush that he
experienced before each of the previous sacrifices. This was the one they had
all led to. This was the one that really counted.

The sign on the door of Peterson’s Mortuary read:
“In case of emergency please call 836-9976.” Vandergrift, squinting in the
rapidly fading light of day, read aloud to Maharos who stood alongside.

They turned to the sound of car tires on the
gravel driveway. A gray and blue patrol car with a yellow “Massillon Police
Department” decal on the door, pulled up and parked. A tall, lean police
officer stepped out and approached. “Hi. I’m Matt Clemens. You the guys
Sergeant Laufer talked to?”

Maharos said, “Yeah. Know where we can find
Peterson?”

“He lives next door.” Clemens pointed to a
two-story red brick house just visible through the hedge that separated
Peterson’s house from the funeral home parking lot.

The three walked up to the front door. Maureen
Peterson in a flower print housedress answered the doorbell. Through the screen
door, she glanced from Maharos to Vandergrift. Spotting Clemens, she smiled in
recognition. Clemens had told Maharos he had moonlighted for the Petersons on a
number of occasions, driving an escort car at funeral processions. “Hi, Matt.
What’s up?”

Maharos had his shield in his hand and answered.
“We’re trying to locate one of Mr. Peterson’s employees. I believe you know him
as Wiliams.”

She opened the screen door. “Would you like to
come in?”

She led them into a spacious center hallway.
Jason Peterson, dressed in slacks and a sport shirt, a newspaper in his hand,
appeared at the entrance to the living room that led off the center hall. He
saw Clemens and greeted him. “Anything wrong, Matt?”

“These officers are looking for the guy who works
for you.”

“Jackson Wiliams?”

Maharos said, “Yes sir.”

“Anything wrong?”

“We’d like to ask him a few questions. Part of an
investigation we’re conducting. Know where we can find him?”

“I imagine he’s home. Maureen, do you know his
address?”

Maureen Peterson said, “It’s that small red brick
apartment building corner of Bridges and Fern. It faces on Bridges but I don’t
know the exact address. It’s just about three blocks from here.”

Vandergrift said, “Could we look up the address
in your phone book?”

Peterson said, “I don’t think he ever put in a
phone. Matt, you know the building, don’t you?”

Maharos’ brows went up. No phone? Who didn’t have
a phone this day and age? Peterson noticed Maharos’ expression. “You’re
thinking about the phone? I know it seems odd, but Jackson—well, he’s a very
private person. Wouldn’t you say, dear?” He looked at his wife for
confirmation.

“Yes, I’d call him a very private person.”

Vandergrift said, “Mr. Peterson, when did you see
him last?”

“A little after five this evening when he left
work.”

“So you wouldn’t expect him back until tomorrow
morning?”

“Well, yes—except he won’t be in tomorrow. He’s
got the day off.”

Maharos said, “Tuesday is his day off?”

Peterson smiled. “In this business we don’t stick
to regular days off. If we have a funeral on Sunday, he would work that day and
take off another day during the week instead.”

“Is that why he’s off tomorrow?”

“Yes—well, partly.”

Maharos kept looking at him for an explanation.

Peterson went on. “We did have a funeral Sunday
and he worked. But, actually, he had requested tomorrow off several weeks ago.
Wasn’t it a few weeks ago, Mo?”

His wife nodded.

“Did he ever request a day off in advance
before?”

Peterson thought for a moment. Looked at his wife
for the answer.

Maureen Peterson touched her husband’s arm. “Yes
he did, dear. Last month, remember, he wanted to be sure he could be off—I
don’t remember the date but I could look it up.”

Peterson smiled, “That’s right. Now that you
mention it, I do remember that there were several other times in the past few
months. He told me a few weeks in advance that he wouldn’t be coming in on
such-and-such a day.”

Maharos said, “Was it always the same day or date
each month.”

Peterson thought a moment. “I’d have to look it
up.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

Mrs. Peterson said, “I was just working on the
books. I’ve got it right here on my desk.”

Maharos said, “I’d appreciate that.” He watched
as she went into the small study off the center hall, and turned back to
Peterson. “How long has he been working for you?”

Peterson puffed out his cheeks and let the air
out slowly, thinking. “Let’s see. It’s almost three years now I think. I could
look up the records, if you want.”

“Maybe later. Is he a licensed mortician?”

“Mortician assistant, we call him. He isn’t
licensed. I am, of course.”

“How did you come to hire him?”

“He answered an ad.”

“Do you know what he had done before he came to
work for you?”

“I think he had been working on a farm. To be
honest, I never checked the references he gave me. When I hired him, it was as
a janitor. At the time, I had another man who helped me preparing bodies, but
he became sick. Wiliams filled in for him and did such a good job that I
trained him myself rather than hunt around for a regular mortician.”

Maharos said, “By the way, what kind of car does
he drive?”

“As far as I know he doesn’t have a car. He only lives
a few blocks away and he always walks to and from work.”

Maureen Peterson was walking back toward them
carrying a ledger book. Peterson asked her, “Have you ever seen Jackson drive a
car, Mo?”

Maureen Peterson shook her head. “Only the
hearse. I guess he takes buses if he has to go any distance. Funny, I’d never
thought too much about how he gets around before.” She opened the ledger. “Here
are the days he’s had off this year.”

She pointed to the dates. He was off usually one
day each week. Since January, Wiliams days off included the seventh of each
month. Maharos took it in, said nothing. He said, “Do you have last year’s
record of days off?”

She flipped the page. In the previous year the
dates on which Wiliams was off, were random.

Vandergrift said, “Mrs. Peterson, you just said
that Mr. Wiliams drives your hearse. Then he must have a valid license, right?”

Mrs. Peterson looked at her husband. Both
appeared flustered. Finally, Peterson said, “I—I’m sure he has one. He
certainly knows how to drive.”

Vandergrift said, “Have you asked to see it?”

“I must have at one time.”

Maharos said, “Do you actually remember seeing
it?”

Peterson’s face turned red. He looked from
Maharos to Vandergrift, then back to Maharos. “I don’t understand what this is
all about.”

Maharos didn’t care whether or not the guy was
driving with a valid license. Probably it had never been renewed. That
explained why his current address had not been filed with the BMV. He tried to
sound casual. “We just want to ask him some routine questions. It’s in
reference to an investigation we’re conducting.”

“You already said that. What kind of
investigation?”

Maharos hesitated. Although the evidence against
the man was piling up, until he was certain Rankins was the person they were
hunting he was reluctant to make a definite statement. “A homicide
investigation. I can’t go into any more detail at the moment, but I’ll be glad
to answer all your questions after we’ve talked to your employee.” He turned to
Clemens. “Could you take us to the apartment building where he lives? We’ll
follow you in our car.”

He followed Clemens and Vandergrift out of the
door and walked rapidly down the steps. The sooner he got away, the fewer
questions he’d have to answer. Peterson stood at the open door, the newspaper hanging
from his hand, a perplexed look on his face.

Rankins lived in a square, red brick, two-story,
corner apartment building. Sturdy oak trees lined the curbs on either side of
the street, their branches forming an arbor over the roadway.

The building contained four apartments, two on
each of the two floors. Clemens pulled the patrol car to the curb on Bridges
Street, in front of the building. Vandergrift, driving an unmarked Ford, parked
on Fern, along the side of the building. It was half-past eight but still
light. Clemens remained in his patrol car.

Maharos waited at the car while Vandergrift
walked around to the back of the building. In a few moments she came back.
“There’s no fire escape,” she said. “There’s a back door but it’s locked. It
looks as though it leads to the basement.”

Maharos and Vandergrift walked to the front of
the building. The outer door led to a small vestibule with an inner door that
was locked. Inside the vestibule, they read the names next to the row of four
bell buttons on a brass plate mounted on a wall. Wiliams’ name was opposite the
top button. Maharos pressed the bell button and they waited but there was no
response. Twice more he rang without an answer.

Vandergrift said, “Let’s try one of the others.
Maybe one of them is the caretaker.”

The name card opposite the lowermost button read
“Warner.” A few moments after Maharos had pressed the button, a man’s metallic
voice came through the flutes of a small amplifier set in the bell button
plate. “Yes?”

“Mr. Warner?”

“Who is this?”

“Police. Can we talk to you?”

A few beats of silence, then, “Wait a minute.”

They heard a door open and a moment later a form
appeared at the thick glass panel set into the door separating the vestibule
from the inner hallway. A man was shielding his eyes looking out as he pressed
his face against the glass.

Maharos held up his shield and Vandergrift
pointed to the star badge pinned to her shirt. The door remained closed. “What
is it you want?” His voice was muffled behind the thick glass.

Maharos called, “We’re trying to find Mr.
Wiliams.”

“His apartment is upstairs. Ring his bell.”

“There’s no answer.”

“Then he’s not home.”

“Who’s the caretaker of this building?”

“I am. I own the building.”

“Can we come in? We’d like to talk to you.”

“What about? I thought you wanted to talk to
Wiliams.”

Maharos was becoming irritated. “Mr. Warner, why
don’t you open the door so we can talk without shouting.”

“How do I know you’re who you say you are?
There’s been a lot of robberies around here.”

Vandergrift stepped outside the vestibule and
beckoned to Clemens seated in his patrol car, elbow resting on the window
frame. He came up the walk. “What’s the problem?”

She explained that Rankins did not answer and the
owner-caretaker would not let them in. “Maybe you could talk to him.”

Clemens stepped to the glass vestibule door.
Warner appeared to recognize the Massillon P.D. uniform. A moment later he
opened the door and stood scowling, while the three filed in to the small inner
lobby.

Maharos said, “Mr. Warner, show us which Mr.
Wiliams’ apartment is. Maybe he’s not answering the doorbell.”

Warner said, “What’s he done?”

Maharos said, “We’re investigating a case and we
need to talk to him.”

Warner hesitated, then shook his head slowly and
led the way up the stairs. He pointed to the door on the left at the head of
the stairs. “That’s Wiliams apartment.”

Maharos stood to the side and knocked. When there
was no response, he called, “Mr. Wiliams?”

Silence.

He turned to Warner. “Do you have a key to his
apartment?”

“Why?”

“We’d like to take a peek inside. See if he’s
asleep or something. Maybe he didn’t hear us.”

“Now, wait a minute. I can’t let you in. You
should know that’s against the law.”

Clemens said, “We could get a warrant…”

“So get a warrant.”

“If I have to go to all that trouble I won’t be
happy.”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re happy or not.”

Clemens glanced around the hallway. “When were
you last inspected for termites?”

“Termites! Where do you think you are,
California? We don’t have no termites here.”

Clemens brushed his hand over the wood molding
halfway up the wall. He looked at his fingers. “Looks like termites to me. I’ll
have a building inspector out in the morning. You can bet your ass he’ll want a
termite inspection. Probably have to do a full fumigation. Everybody’d have to
leave the building ‘till it’s over.”

Warner took a deep sighing breath. “Wait here.
I’ll get the master key.”

*
  
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*