Murder in the Air (16 page)

Bram tried to head Betty off at the pass. “In our next hour I'll open the lines up to anything and everything my listeners want to talk about. However, right now, Doctor—”

“I think you make a great announcer, Bram. Did anyone ever tell you you have some of the same qualities in your voice as Orson Welles?”

He couldn't cut her off now. She was making too many salient points. “Why … thank you, Betty.”

“My husband thinks you're a pathetic liberal fruitcake, but I don't agree. Hey, tell me. On the mystery broadcast, didn't you also play the bartender? I loved every minute of it!”

“Yes, that was me. But back to the pathetic-liberal-fruitcake comment.”

“And tell me another thing. Is Valentine Zolotow, the actor who plays Dallas Lane, really as handsome as he sounds?”

“Oh, Betty. Valentine is … something to behold. On a scale of one to ten—” He couldn't help but smirk. “He's off the scale.”

“I knew it. I just knew it. Thanks. Bye.”

Bram glanced at the time. Five minutes to the top of the hour and the phone banks were full. “I've got room for a couple more calls. Raymond from St. Paul, you're on.”

“Bram? Thought I'd rescue your guest for a moment. I've got a few comments I'd like to make on the Kay Collins murder case, on the off chance you're interested in a lawyer's point of view.”

“Ray, this is great. For those of you who don't know who I'm talking to, this is Raymond Lawless, St. Paul's most famous defense attorney. The F. Lee Bailey of the North.”

“If you're trying to flatter me, it's not working.”

Bram laughed. “Thanks for the call.” He could both feel and see Dr. Bergstein's relief as the subject of assisted suicide was
temporarily put on hold. “Actually, Ray, I've wondered how a defense attorney would view Justin Bloom's innocence or guilt. I mean, if he'd gone to trial, was he a doomed man?”

“Absolutely not,” said Ray. His voice projected quiet authority. “We have an eyewitness account of the murder, but we have no motive. That would have been a huge hole in the county's argument, a critical gap that a good defense lawyer could have used to Bloom's advantage. Why would a man, Justin Bloom in this case, murder a woman he supposedly loved? As far as I know, no one has ever come up with an answer to that.”

“Interesting point.”

“Secondly, in the Fifties, a police officer's word was inviolate. Today, however, we know that police officers do lie. People are people. Some are honest, some aren't. The point is, if they lie now, they lied back then, even though in the age of Eisenhower, society wasn't willing to admit it. Recently, we've heard a lot of talk about ‘dirty cops.’ Well, maybe the cop who witnessed the Collins murder was dirty. Maybe he was paid to give a false statement. Who knows? He's dead now, so he can't be cross-examined, but just because a man gives his word about something doesn't make it true.”

“These are all fascinating points,” said Bram, pulling the mike closer. This was the meatiest conversation he'd had so far about the murder case. He assumed his listeners were eating it up. “But what about the gun? It was registered to Justin Bloom's stepfather. Justin had easy access to it. And, if I recall correctly, only his fingerprints were on it. No one else's. Isn't that pretty damning?”

“Well, let's talk about that for a moment. First, why would Justin murder his girlfriend and then leave the gun at the scene of the crime? Seems kind of silly to me. Of course you're right. It's a damning piece of evidence. But assuming Justin Bloom wasn't a stupid man, why would he leave the murder weapon for the police to find? You could argue that the police officer startled him. He dropped the gun as a reflex. But if he'd stolen a weapon to kill his girlfriend, this was a premeditated act. He'd thought about what he was
going to do, planned the time and place. That requires a cold, calculating mind, Bram, not the kind of mind that would panic easily and leave incriminating evidence at the scene.”

“When a defense attorney gets his hands on a case, nothing is cut-and-dried, is it?”

“No, and it shouldn't be. The last point I want to make is this: You mentioned that only Justin Bloom's fingerprints were found on the gun. Now, if the gun belonged to his stepfather, then why weren't the stepfather's fingerprints found on it as well? Obviously, it was wiped clean. But why? Why would Justin wipe the gun clean of prints, and then drop it at the crime scene with only his prints on it? It makes no sense. And furthermore, it was no doubt cold that day. Christmas eve, if I'm not mistaken. Why didn't he have on a pair of gloves? If you ask me, all of this begins to sound more and more like a setup. At least, as his attorney, that's what I'd argue.”

Again, Bram checked the time. “You got any more thoughts on this subject?”

“Many,” said Raymond. “But right now I'm due in court.”

“Thanks, buddy. If you don't mind, I'll have my producer contact you off air. Maybe we can get you on the program sometime soon.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“All right,” said Bram. There was only one minute left. “Let's get back to our topic. Dave from Blaine, welcome to
The Bram Baldric Show.”

“Hey, man. My mother-in-law worked with the infamous Kay Collins at Manderbach's department store back in the late Fifties. She said Collins was a slut. Deserved everything she got.”

Bram cut him off. “On that inspiring note, we better head to a break. Next hour it's going to be open mike. All you good folks out there get to entertain
me,
and boy do I need it. I expect our usual Monday-afternoon free-for-all. 555-4905. And, as always, this is the pathetic liberal fruitcake, Bram “Rosebud' Baldric, speaking to you from Xanadu. Be right back.”

The “On Air” light went out.

“You know,” said Dr. Bergstein as he yanked off his headset
and scrambled to his feet, “they couldn't pay me enough money to do your job.”

Bram's smile lacked its usual luster. “Some days I feel the same way. Thanks for coming.”

“Don't mention it. And don't call again. Try one of my associates next time.” He bolted for the door.

An hour later Bram limped back to his office. It was only Monday and here he was, already sick to death of discussing Justin Bloom and company. Unfortunately, the subject wasn't about to disappear, not as long as the intrepid Dallas Lane, Private Eye was on the case. Bram would have welcomed another topic, even subjects he loathed such as the English royals or the dreaded gun-control rant—anything but more speculation on a question that was, by its very nature, unanswerable.

Easing down onto his tired but soft leather chair, Bram grabbed a package of chocolate-chip cookies from his top desk drawer. A little R & R was in order. He hadn't eaten any lunch and knew he'd never make it to dinner on the bagel, cream cheese, and coffee he'd had for breakfast. So what if this wasn't one of his better nutrition days? He'd make up for it tonight by eating … a celery stick. In his Bloody Mary. That would take care of two of the four vegetable servings he should be eating each day. Sophie would be proud.

The phone next to him gave a jarring ring.

“Ugh,” he grumped, gazing forlornly at the uneaten cookie in his hand. The last thing he wanted was another phone conversation. “Speak,” he said, hoping his lack of manners would make the call a short one.

“Is this Bram Baldric?”

It was a female voice. Pleasant. Not young. “Last I heard.”

“I, ah, was hoping to talk to you privately.”

“What about?”

“The Kay Collins—”

“Lady, look, I don't mean to be rude, but why don't you call me on air tomorrow afternoon. I'm pretty busy right now, and to be honest, I'm kind of sick of the whole subject. By tomorrow, I should have my second wind.”

“What I've got to say will interest you.”

“Fine. Call me tomorrow and—”

“Like I said, we gotta talk about this privately. I've listened to your program for years and I know you're a good guy. I need someone I can trust.”

“That's very kind of you. And of course, true. But right now, I'm a starving man. I'm sitting here, staring at a cookie—”

“I have a letter, one you might want to look at. It was written by Arn O'Dell, the police officer who saw Justin Bloom murder Kay Collins.”

He was instantly intrigued. As he was about to respond a button on his phone lit up. “Listen, I have another call, but I'll be right back. I promise. Don't go away, okay?”

“I'll wait.”

He switched to line two. “Bram Baldric. Make it fast.”

“Bram, you have to come right away!”

It was his Sophie. She sounded upset. “What's wrong?”

“It's Rudy. He collapsed. John came home from work and found him facedown on the bathroom floor. He was—” Her voice broke. “Unconscious. John just called. I'm at the Max-field right now, but he said the paramedics were taking Rudy to St. Jude's emergency room. Can you meet me over there? I'm leaving right now.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes. Sophie?”

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

“No! I'm terrified. I should have pushed him harder to see that doctor. This is all my fault. Just come soon, okay. I need you.”

“Don't worry, sweetheart. Twenty minutes.”

He returned to the first caller. “I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I've got a family emergency.”

Silence.

“Hello? Ms.—I don't know your name.” He waited. After several seconds of dead air it was apparent she'd hung up. Hell, there was nothing he could do about it now. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he rushed out the door.

March 21, 1959

My dearest Justin,

I've thought long and hard about what I would write to you if and when I got the chance. So much is in my heart, and on my mind. I remembered, finally, what my father always used to say to me. Heda, he'd say, don't ever pull your punches. I'm going to follow his advice.

First, let me tell you that I love you. I will always love you, Justin, no matter what you've done. I miss you and I want you to come home. It's been terribly hard for me these past few months, not knowing where you are or if you're safe.

A If and Cedric don't know that you've written to me. It's taken every ounce of discretion I possess not to let them know. I'm aware that you and your stepfather haven't always seen eye to eye, but Cedric has been beside himself with worry ever since you left. He wants you to come back and stand trial. For the first few weeks he talked about nothing else. If you're innocent, then you have to prove it, and I agree. Money isn't an object. You know we're not poor. He'd find you the best lawyer in the state. Truth always wins out, son. If I didn't believe that, I couldn't get up in the morning. Think about it. I see no other way for you to clear your name.

You're right about the newspapers. They've tried and convicted you. While I know that in your own way and in your own time, you've trying to give me the details leading up to Kay's death, I have to be honest with you. It's very difficult for me to understand why a well-respected police
officer would lie about what he saw. Cedric and I even went to the station and spoke with him personally. He seemed like a decent, honest man, and he's adamant that you were the one who pulled the trigger that night, the one who ended Kay's life. He's been on the force for over twenty-five years. Don't be upset with us, Justin, but it's a hard matter for me to resolve, especially when I don't have all the facts.

I want desperately to believe in your innocence, son. And yet I must say that it fills me with horror to hear you suggest that your brother or one of our friends at the station had something to do with Kay's murder. You've got to explain that to me. I simply don't understand.

Since you left, Alf has said very little. He's in pain, I can tell. I know you think Cedric has always favored Alf because he's his natural son while you had a different father, but if you could see the two of them now, you'd know they love you, and that they want to help prove your innocence to the entire world. I'm sorry, but I cannot believe Alf would ever hurt you in any way.

As for Mitzi. I thought you should know that she's left town. She was so devastated by her breakup with you that for a time I wasn't sure she'd survive it. She's a high-strung, emotional young woman, and whether you believe this or not, she loved you deeply. Since I was never able to meet Kay, I have no way of knowing what kind of woman she was. From your account of her, she sounds like a good person. I can only say that I wish matters had been handled differently. I had no idea why the breakup happened until I read your letter. You were your usual tight-lipped self about it before Christmas, and all Mitzi would say was that it was over. Like any woman, she has her pride, and I didn't want to force the information out of her. I thought that eventually one of you would come to me and I'd be told the truth of the matter. But that won't happen now.

Mitzi's contract wasn't renewed at the station because, as of February I,
Dallas Lane, Private Eye
is no longer part of our radio schedule. It was simply becoming too costly, and our advertising base for this kind of program
is drying up. Television's challenge to the radio industry can't be overestimated, and I'm afraid Mitzi got caught in the cross fire. I was, however, terribly upset that she left without saying goodbye. She hasn't been herself since you left, Justin. Perhaps, someday, her wounds will heal. I pray for that every night.

Several weeks after you left, your landlord called us. He said you'd paid your rent early, so your belongings could stay put until the end of the month. But he wanted everything out by the thirty-first of January. So I went over and boxed everything up and then we hired some men to move it to a storage locker down on Lake Street. That's where it is now. And your car is in our garage. Oh, I should tell you that I took all your personal papers and put them downstairs in a wooden storage box just outside the rec room. I promise, III keep everything safe for you until you return.

I've taken every precaution to make sure this letter travels by trustworthy hands. I believe your friend in New York and I have worked out a reliable system for funneling your letters to me. You're right about the house being watched. Several times in the last few months I've noticed men sitting across the street in a car. They pretend they've reading a map, but I know better. Actually, I even saw one of them following me once when I went into the downtown library to check out a book. I assume they've FBI agents, although they look like thugs. Cedric mentioned that he'd seen some men, too, outside the radio station.