Barry Friedman - Dead End (7 page)

Detective Lieutenant Charles Birtcher of the
Canton Police Department peered over the tops of his half-glasses. “Is that the
Greek Adonis I see invading our territory? Or maybe Kojak?”

Al Maharos had just walked through the door of
Birtcher’s office. “Hello, Charlie,” he said.

“Has Ed Bragg sent you over to spy? See how a
department should be run?”

Maharos ran a finger over the top of Birtcher’s
desk and examined the tip of his finger.”

“Actually, we’re trying to recruit someone to do
our office cleaning. But I don’t think you’ve got what we want.” He extended
his hand. “You’re looking good, Charlie.”

Birtcher looked at the top of Maharos’ head.
“Hey, I think you’ve grown a hair since I saw you last.”

“Yeah. In my nose.”

It was worth a chuckle from Birtcher. “What’s up,
Al?”

Maharos sank into an easy chair in front of
Birtcher’s desk.

“You’ve got a guy I’m interested in talking to.”
He glanced at a sheet of paper in his hand. “Lance Harwood.”

Birtcher gave him a sideways leer. “This your day
for boys? You’re no longer interested in girls”

“What have you got on him?”

“Harwood’s a fag. He and his lover had a spat. It
got past the biting and scratching stage. Harwood put him away with a .25, or
maybe it was a .22, I forget. Anyway, he’s in the lock-up. I think his trial is
on the books for next week. What’s your interest in the case?”

Maharos told him that he was investigating George
Horner’s death and that he was looking at all of the comparable recent
homicides for a possible lead. He asked, “Do you have a confession from
Harwood.”

Birtcher shook his head. “No. He claims he’s
clean. Says he loved the guy too much to even think of killing him. But we had
picked him up twice before, charged with assault with a deadly weapon, a knife.
Both times he had cut up his roommate, Flossie Burnstein.”

“Flossie?”

“Not what you think. Flossie is—was—Frank. He was
a male nurse at Mercy Hospital. We should have locked up Harwood before, but
Burnstein refused to press charges. They kissed and made up. This time, Harwood
really kissed him off.”

Maharos asked, “Where was Burnstein killed?”

“We found him in his car out near Hurford Run,
know where that is?”

“It’s a little south of here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s just off I 77. Want to look at the
file?”

“I’d like that.”

Birtcher buzzed his secretary and had a thick
file folder brought in. He handed it to Maharos. “I’m not sure what you expect
to find. Didn’t you say your homicide occurred in May? Harwood was locked up at
the time.”

Maharos knew that Birtcher would laugh him right
out of his office if he told him that he was investigating all the homicides by
gunshot that had occurred on the seventh of each month. He shrugged. “Obviously
Harwood’s not a suspect in Horner’s death. It’s just that there are some
similarities. Maybe we’ve got a copy cat.”

Birtcher furrowed his brow but said nothing.
Maharos took the file into the squad room and sat at an unoccupied desk to leaf
through it.

Burnstein and Harwood had been roommates and
lovers for three years. They lived in an apartment complex in an upper middle
class neighborhood. Lance Harwood was a decorator who worked for a large
furniture store. His work was highly regarded, but he had a reputation of being
temperamental. Other employees found him difficult to work with.

Frank Burnstein was pleasant, placid and friendly.
He made friends too easily to suit Harwood whose jealous rages resulted in
shouting that had been reported to police by neighbors on three separate
occasions. Twice, as Lieutenant Birtcher had told Maharos, Harwood had attacked
Burnstein with a knife. Both times the wounds had been superficial although
they required suturing at the hospital emergency room. Emergency room personnel
as required by law had notified police, but Burnstein did not press charges.
Harwood’s last knife attack had occurred two days before Burnstein was killed.

The last time Burnstein had been seen alive was
when he went off duty from his three-to-eleven p.m. shift at Mercy Hospital.
The night security guard saw him walking to his car in the hospital parking
lot. Harwood contended that Burnstein never arrived home. He did not report
Burnstein missing, claimed it was not unusual for him to cover for one of the
nurses on the night shift. The following day Burnstein’s body was discovered in
his car by the side of a county road.

Harwood admitted to having owned a .25
 
caliber handgun, which he bought four years
before. He said he purchased it for protection because he had to go to the
homes of clients at night. It had been registered with police. After
Burnstein’s death, Harwood had been asked to produce the gun but was unable to
find it.

By the end of an hour’s reading through the file,
Maharos learned two things that convinced him that Burnstein and Horner and
possibly Hamberger as well, had been killed by the same person: First, the
autopsy showed that Burnstein had been shot twice from behind. One bullet
entered at the base of the neck and the second entered between the shoulder
blades. These were the identical entry sites to those that had killed Horner.
He hadn’t received the autopsy report on Hamberger as yet. Second, vacuumed
material from the carpet in the back of Burnstein’s car included blue wool
fibers. He made a note to check if they had been compared to those found in
Horner’s car carpet and on Hamberger’s overalls.

Maharos closed the file and stared at its cover.
What significance was there in the location of the bullet entry sites? It had
to be more than accidental that the two bullet holes in each case were in
identical places. One notable difference was that Horner and Hamberger had
sustained severe head injuries as well. Burnstein had been spared that. Why? He
visualized Burnstein as being passive, not offering resistance like the other
two.

Another thing: here are two gays living together.
Violence between homosexuals is not uncommon, but, as a rule, these fights
erupt in a moment of passion and in their home. If Harwood did shoot his lover
wouldn’t he have done it in the apartment they shared? Why take him out to a
remote road? There’s also the question of how would he get back home? The file
had described Harwood as fastidious and debonair. Somehow he couldn’t picture
the decorator trudging down the lonely, dusty road at night, or hitchhiking as
he theorized Horner’s killer and possibly Hamberger’s as well, might have left
the scene.

He shook his head to clear it like a dog shakes
water off its fur, and took the file back to Birtcher’s office.

The lieutenant greeted him, “Well, detective, did
you get any ideas?”

Maharos was not ready to tell Birtcher what he
suspected, what he knew. For one thing, he was not sure Birtcher would agree
with him. The Canton police had what they considered to be a credible suspect.
The district attorney, relying on the circumstantial evidence had presented a
convincing case to the Grand Jury so that Harwood had been arraigned for murder
one. Because it was a capital case, Harwood had been imprisoned without bail
for five months. Maharos knew the repercussions would be horrendous if he blew
away the case against Harwood at this time. Besides, it could drive the killer
underground for a time only to surface with a new rash of killings. Maharos
said, “Can I talk to Harwood?”

Birtcher said, “Come on, Al. If you’ve got
something I want to know about it. Don’t give me any ‘copy cat’ shit.”

“How solid do you think your case is?”

Birtcher gestured to the file that Maharos had
returned to his desk. “You read it. You tell me.”

Maharos knew he would get no cooperation from
Birtcher unless he leveled with him. “Okay, Charlie. Here are the similarities:
Horner was found dead in his car. So was Burnstein. Both on side roads. Horner
was shot twice with a .22, once at the base of the neck, the second between the
shoulder blades. Burnstein was shot in the same places although with a .25.
Either one of the two gunshot wounds could have been fatal. Why hit these guys
twice? Here’s another thing: the techs vacuumed some blue wool fibers from the
carpet in the back of Horner’s car. I see in their report they found some in
Burnstein’s car. We ought to have someone run a comparison, if it hasn’t
already been done.”

Birtcher fixed his gaze on Maharos without
speaking. He stood up from his chair and walked to the window looking out with
his hands clasped behind his back. “You realize, Maharos, you’re knocking my
case into a shit heap—not to mention inviting a lawsuit for false arrest and
imprisonment.”

Maharos could feel the tension rising in
Birtcher. He knew the turmoil that must be going through his mind and tried to
console him. “Assuming there’s a connection between the two homicides—which so
far is based on conjecture.”

Birtcher turned to face him. There was no humor
in his expression now. “You want to talk to Harwood, right?”

Maharos nodded.

“Okay. Let me contact his lawyer. If he says it’s
all right, you got it.”

Homer Lavant had been the leading criminal lawyer
in Canton for more than twenty-five years. His flamboyant dress and courtroom
histrionics were distracting enough to draw attention away from his client. His
behavior, calculated to be obnoxious, often influenced juries to react
sympathetically toward the poor bastard who had him for a lawyer.

Lavant bounced into the waiting room outside
Lieutenant Birtcher’s office where Maharos had been waiting. Five foot-five,
weighing 200 pounds, he looked like Santa without the beard. His flowing white
mane brought emphasis to the pinkness of his skin. His smile exposed a row of
evenly capped white teeth as he greeted Maharos. “Sorry you had to wait,
Detective. I was in the middle of a trial.”

Maharos nodded. “I understand. I think Lieutenant
Birtcher

 
told you
that I want to talk to your client, Lance Harwood.”

“That’s all he told me. Obviously, I want to know
why.”

“I’m investigating the homicide of a Youngstown
resident, an attorney named Horner—you may have known him.”

Lavant nodded. “Not personally, but I know of the
case. What possible connection is there to the murder that my client is accused
of?”

“All I can tell you at this time is that there
are some similarities in the two. I can’t go into it in any more detail, but I
can assure you that Harwood is not a suspect in the case I’m investigating. In
fact, Harwood was in jail when Horner was killed.”

Lavant gazed at him without speaking for a few
seconds. Maharos could sense the man’s wheels turning. The lawyer wanted more
information. Perhaps he could wheedle it by threatening to refuse the interview
with his client. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t do, Mr.
Maharos. I need to know why I should allow Mr. Harwood to be interrogated at
this late stage. You know, of course, that his trial is scheduled for next
week.”

“I realize that. All I can say is that any
information I can get from talking to Harwood is more likely to help him than
hurt him.”

Again Lavant shook his head. “Too vague, Maharos.
I won’t do business with you under those restrictions.”

Maharos rose from his seat. “Then I’m afraid it’s
no go. If you change your mind let me know.” He held out his hand to the
lawyer.

Lavant put up his palm like a traffic cop and
smiled. “Okay. You’re a good poker player, Maharos. But I’ll be there with you
when you question him, of course.”

“Of course.”

Even though he wore ill-fitting, gray prison
clothing, Lance Harwood made Maharos feel poorly dressed. He sat erect,
opposite the detective at a round table in the interrogation room with his arms
folded defiantly across his chest. His blonde hair was swept back from a broad
forehead, his light blue eyes slightly hooded. Alongside Harwood, sat Homer
Lavant.

Maharos asked, “Mr. Harwood—may I call you
Lance?”

Harwood nodded.

“Mr. Lavant has probably told you that my
interest in talking to you is that I’m investigating a homicide which has some
similarities to Frank Burnstein’s murder. Let me say at the outset that you are
not suspected of being involved in the case I’m investigating, is that clear?”

Harwood nodded again. Lips tightly compressed.

“Does the name George Horner mean anything to
you?”

Harwood looked over to his lawyer. Lavant said,
“Go ahead and answer.”

Harwood opened his mouth to speak but Maharos held
up a hand. “Hold it. Before you answer, I want to be sure you’re doing it of
your own free will, and not because your lawyer suggested it.” Maharos was
making sure he was not cutting a hole in the prison wall for the guy to slip
through on a legal technicality. A stunt like that was vintage Lavant.

Harwood nodded and said. “I understand, I’ll
answer. Isn’t he that lawyer guy who was killed?”