The Good Friday Murder Page 18

  “Somebody did,” I said. I remembered what one of the twins had said when we were taping on Saturday. Jerry was nice. Jerry had brought them chocolate.

  Jerry was ready to kill—again.

  —

  I had nowhere else to turn, so I went back to the papers Dr. Sanderson had sent. Over the next couple of hours I read the ones I had not yet looked at. James and Robert were described in each of these papers, sometimes quite cavalierly—“a pair of savant twins with the mental capacities of five-year olds”—and the results of “games” were detailed. There was very little that was new to me, but I found that the papers with the most names listed as authors lacked Dr. Weintraub’s easy, thoughtful style. I suspected the “junior collaborators” in those articles were the soldiers who had done much of the compiling of the data and the actual writing, younger people on their way up, among whom might be the elusive Jerry, although none of the names seemed probable.

  Only one article looked promising, a paper by Henry Courtland, M.D., in which he discussed the length of time it took the twins to come up with answers (like prime numbers, dates, or days of the week), clocked with a stopwatch, and described how they looked at each other during the process. I wondered if Dr. Courtland might have been on to something. Also, although the papers were heavily footnoted, most of the references were to older works of the same kind, some of them dating to the nineteenth century. But Dr. Courtland, at the point of discussing the twins’ looking into each other’s eyes, wrote in a footnote, “See also my paper in Psychological Review,” followed by the date and volume number.

  I called around Westchester until I found a library with a complete set of Psychological Review. Then I cut myself a piece of Swiss cheese, drank a glass of juice, folded the article into my bag, and drove off.

  The journal was bound, and I found the Courtland article with little difficulty. It was clear he thought the twins’ habit of looking at each other intently as they came up with answers to questions was important to the process, but his opinion was that they were giving each other moral support. He spent most of the article talking about other retarded people who displayed remarkable gifts. But in the sentence where the twins were mentioned, there was a footnote: “See also ‘The Role of Visual Contact in the Performance of Savant Twins,’ G. K. Spanner, Dept, of Psychology, unpublished papers.”

  My heart nearly stopped. Maybe we had a Gerry instead of a Jerry! I hurried home and called the NYU School of Medicine. They had an address for Dr. Henry Courtland, who had retired a few years ago to Florida, and I persuaded the young woman to give me the phone number. Two minutes later I was on the phone with Dr. Courtland.

  I went through my explanation and refreshed his memory. He recalled the twins well, although he had not seen them very often. He had accompanied Dr. Weintraub on a few occasions, but their interests were different. Dr. Courtland was involved at that time in studying how people recalled facts and solved problems in their heads. When Dr. Weintraub told him that the twins seemed to take increasingly longer to generate increasingly larger prime numbers, Dr. Courtland thought it was worth some investigation.

  “I’ve just read your article in Psychological Review,” I told him. “You’ve got a footnote there that intrigues me. Something about an unpublished paper, ‘The Role of Visual Contact in the Performance of Savant Twins,’ by G. K. Spanner.”

  “Oh, Gerry Spanner. I haven’t thought of him for years.”

  “What can you tell me about him, Dr. Courtland?”

  “Well, if you want a very unscientific opinion, I thought he was nuts.” He laughed at his own joke.

  I chuckled to show my appreciation. “In what way?”

  “As a person, he had a nasty temper. The slightest thing could set him off, so it was tough going working with him. And professionally, Gerry thought there was some kind of ESP going on between the Talley twins, that they couldn’t perform unless they were in the same room, or something like that. Frankly, I always put ESP in a class with witchcraft, but he was very adamant.”

  “Was he a medical student?”

  “Good heavens, no. He was in the psych department, but he knew someone, maybe one of Dr. Weintraub’s associates, and got to see the twins that way.”

  “Did he publish those findings?”

  “I wouldn’t call them ‘findings.’ They were guesses at best. And he couldn’t publish. He wanted to use the idea as the basis for his doctoral dissertation. You can’t use previously published material for that, as I’m sure you know.”

  I did know, having done a master’s essay some years ago. “What was this ‘unpublished paper’ you referred to in your article?”

  “It was a talk he gave to the psychology club or some such thing. When he heard about my study, he asked me to footnote his ‘paper,’ if that’s what you would call it. He thought it would enhance his small reputation. I agreed, frankly because I wanted to get rid of him. He was making a pest of himself.”

  “Dr. Courtland, do you know of any plans he had to take the twins away from their mother for the purpose of his study?”

  “Oh, he had some grandiose idea. He wanted to put them in a controlled environment and study them together and separately. He wanted to see whether they responded with a wall between them, with their backs to each other, at various distances. If he’d been able to prove anything, it would have been an excellent dissertation topic.”

  The “hiding game,” I thought, realizing I had jumped to a wrong conclusion that they had played hide-and-seek. “He didn’t do it, though, did he?”

  “No, and no one seems to know what happened to him. I think he dropped out after the killing. I suppose having the twins in jail spoiled his plans. As I recall, they were sent to separate institutions.”

  “They were. So he never got his Ph.D.”

  “Not that I know of, but I really had nothing to do with the psych department. You could call over there; I’m sure they’d tell you. But I’m pretty certain someone told me he’d given up altogether, went into the family business or some such thing.”

  “Do you recall his first name, Doctor?”

  “Gerard, I think it was.”

  I thanked him very much and hung up. Then I tried Jack, but he wasn’t at the precinct. I pulled out Aunt Meg’s worn old copy of the Manhattan directory and looked up Spanner. There was no G., G. K., or Gerard. I called Information, and they confirmed that there was no listing. The same was true in Westchester. It occurred to me that he might live anywhere in the country. The calls to New Hope and Greenwillow and the other places could have originated anywhere. And if he wasn’t living in the area, but had come in to do harm to the twins, there was no telling where he was staying now, if anywhere. He might be holing up in a station wagon or van.

  It was now late afternoon, and my chances of getting any more information from the university or the medical school were slim. I went out to the car and drove to Greenwillow.

  The twins were in their room replaying a scene from the 1940s, which, after all, was practically yesterday in their memory. I stood at the door watching them until James turned and saw me.

  “Look, it’s Chris,” he said happily.

  I went in and talked to them for a while. James was feeling much better. Remnants of tea and bouillon on a tray told me what he’d been eating, and his cheerful demeanor told me much more.

  I stayed an hour, then went home and tried Jack. He was still out somewhere, or maybe, I thought, he’d gone home for the day. But he wasn’t at that number either.

  Although there were still a couple of hours of daylight left, I went around the first floor and closed blinds, shades, and curtains. Feeling rather foolish, I went down to the basement and looked around. Aunt Meg’s supply of canned goods was arranged on shelves built into the wall, and a pile of my cartons, still unopened, stood nearby. The patio furniture was piled in a corner. There was a furnace and a water heater, which turned on while I was there, nearly sending me into a panic. Otherwise, the base
ment was fairly empty.

  Four small, hinged windows, two on the front and two on the back of the house, all seemed to be closed and latched. I wasn’t very hungry, but I went upstairs, made a salad, and ate it while reading the paper.

  When I was finished, I sat at the dining room table and made a list of all the coauthors of all the articles Dr. Sanderson had sent me. Most of the names were repeated from article to article, so the final list was less than ten. Tomorrow I would try to locate each of them and see if anyone remembered or, better still, had kept in touch with Gerard Spanner.

  That done, I found the book I was reading and got myself comfortable on the sofa. I would have liked to play some music or even watch television, but Jack had made me so nervous that I thought I ought to keep it quiet so that I could hear if a car approached or someone tried to break in.

  As it turned out, I didn’t hear anything until the doorbell rang, and when it did, I froze. Suddenly I felt very alone and very vulnerable. I got up and walked nearer the front door, being careful not to stand in front of it.

  “Who is it?” Hoping I didn’t sound terrified.

  “Jack.”

  I felt as though I’d had a reprieve from the gallows. I opened the door and he came in and held me. I heard the door close and realized he must have kicked it shut. Then we kissed.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “How about putting some clothes in a bag and coming home with me, just for overnight?”

  I considered it. “We’d have to go in two cars. I can’t spend tomorrow in New York.”

  He said, “Shit,” under his breath. Then, “Chris, I don’t think you’re safe here.”

  The phone rang, startling me. I went to get it.

  “Chris?” a woman’s voice said.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. Who’s this?”

  “Midge McGuire next door. I was taking the dog for a walk and I saw a car in your driveway. You said to look out—”

  “Oh, thanks, Midge. A friend just dropped by. I really appreciate it.”

  “I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Mind? I think you’re wonderful.”

  She assured me she’d keep her watch, and we said goodbye.

  The phone call seemed to change Jack’s mind a little about my leaving, and anyway, I was determined not to go.

  “Okay,” he said, finally, “I’ll stay till morning.”

  “Let me make up the guest room.”

  “I’m staying down here.”

  “You’ll be more comfortable—”

  “I’ll do more good down here.”

  We talked for a while and then I got him a towel and a pillow. While I was fixing up the sofa, he pulled a gun out of a holster around his ankle and put it on the end table. I must have looked surprised.

  “No jacket in summer,” he explained. “Nowhere else to carry it.”

  “Must make it tough to swim,” I said.

  “Makes a lot of things tough.” He gave me a kiss. “Go to sleep and don’t worry about anything.”

  I didn’t sleep well. I heard things, I imagined things. I wondered if Jack was comfortable.

  At about three in the morning I put my robe on and tiptoed down the stairs. I hadn’t even gotten to the last step when I heard his voice from the dark living room.

  “Go back to sleep. Everything’s fine.”

  I said, “Good night,” and went back upstairs. After that I slept.

  28

  I spent most of the next day making fruitless phone calls. The Psychology Department at NYU thought I was crazy to be looking for someone from forty years ago. The secretary said she might be able to help me, but it would take time. Records that old were stored away, and she couldn’t get to them today. The registrar found Gerard K. Spanner but said that he hadn’t registered since the 1950 spring term. His last known address was Newark, New Jersey, but it was unlikely he was still there. Newark, they assured me, had changed. The alumni office had no address and asked me to give them one if I found him. Sure thing.

  Then I got the status and whereabouts of the coauthors of the papers Dr. Sanderson had sent me. Two were dead, three were in New York, one in Los Angeles, one outside of Chicago, and one in Boston. I started on the East Coast and worked my way west. It was a thankless task. Most of the doctors were seeing patients or unavailable. I managed to talk to two. Both remembered the Talley twins; neither had ever heard of Gerry Spanner. I got the feeling from one of them that his circle of friends didn’t include psychologists.

  Jack had said he would try to find Spanner through Motor Vehicles, but I didn’t hear from him, so I assumed he’d failed to turn up the name. I called and left a message saying Spanner had lived in Newark in 1950 and could he try New Jersey Motor Vehicles, too?

  Finally I got in my car and drove to Greenwillow.

  The twins were fine, Gene was fine, Virginia McAlpin was fine. The doctor had been to see James, who was recovering nicely. No one had called about the twins or tried to see them except me. I hung around for a while and then, satisfied that they were safe, went home.

  One of my neighbors waved as I came down Pine Brook Road, and I stopped and chatted, reminding her to stay alert. A car came along, and I left her and pulled into the driveway. Since I didn’t plan to go out again tonight, I put the car in the garage and shut the door.

  The garbage had been collected, and the tops to the cans were askew. I straightened them up and went into the house.

  Life is composed of a lot of patterns. The one I follow when I enter the house is to go to the kitchen and drop my bag and keys on the counter. After that, I think about what I want to do.

  So on that afternoon I followed my usual pattern, went to the kitchen, dropped my bag on the counter and my keys next to it, and turned to the refrigerator to get some juice. What I saw as I turned was a glistening on the floor, as though someone had spilled water. It puzzled me, because there was no water around and the ceiling was quite dry. I walked toward it—it was near the window that faced the backyard—and realized it wasn’t water; it was shattered glass. A pane of the window had been broken!

  It took a moment to register. Someone had broken a pane of my kitchen window. Someone was in this house! I swiveled on my sandal, making a dash for the telephone. Aunt Meg had taped the emergency number on the side of the phone, and I knew the Oakwood police were very responsive. I picked up the receiver and put it to my ear. There was no dial tone, and looking down, I could see that someone had removed the thin wire connecting the base of the telephone with the little box on the wall.

  I needed nothing else to tell me to get out of the house, and fast. I grabbed my bag and keys and started for the door. I didn’t get there.

  He must have been hiding in the closet near the stairs, because suddenly he was in front of me, a man in his sixties who could have been my father except that he was holding a gun. I stopped dead.

  “So that’s what you look like,” he said, his eyes appraising me.

  “What do you want?”

  “You know what I want.”

  “I don’t.” I really didn’t. What I was trying to decide was whether to let him know how much I knew or play dumb. If I knew nothing, would he have any reason to kill me?

  He solved my dilemma. “You keep nice careful notes, Miss B. I like a well-organized woman.”

  The dining room table! Practically everything I knew was written down in the order in which I had learned it. “There’s more,” I said. “Things that aren’t on the table.”

  “Sure.”

  “There are tapes.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the twins’ recollections of Good Friday. They’ve been turned over to the New York City police.”

  “Sure,” he said again.

  “It’s true.”

  “It doesn’t matter. They’re worthless in a court of law.”

  I had no idea whether that was true o
r not, but a tape could certainly be forged quite easily. “And the police know your name. I got it from Dr. Henry Courtland.”

  “That old bastard still alive?”

  “Quite alive. And he remembers you well.”

  “If he’d given me the slightest chance, I could have done what I wanted. What I discovered was the biggest breakthrough in the study of the mind in this century.”

  “I know that. I admire you for your discovery.”

  “I don’t need your admiration, Miss B. I need your help.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” He wagged the gun.

  “Mr. Spanner, I’m sure you killed Mrs. Talley by accident.” I knew from the twins that wasn’t true, but I wanted to keep him calm. Dr. Courtland had said he had a nasty temper, and the twins’ story of the murder reinforced that.

  He stared at me coldly for several seconds. “Don’t sweet-talk me, lady. I killed someone who got in my way. That’s the long and short of it.”

  It wasn’t the long and short of it as far as I was concerned. Forgetting my resolve to keep from angering him, I said, “You also condemned two innocent men to forty years in prison.”

  “They didn’t know the difference. And if I couldn’t have them, I wanted to make damn sure no one could.”

  “It was a long time ago. They would never try you now. Why don’t you confess and get it off your conscience?” I knew it was a foolishly Catholic thing to say to a man who had probably abandoned his code of morals decades ago, if he’d ever had one.

  “My idea is much easier and much quicker. You and I go to Greenwillow, and you get me one of the twins. I don’t care which one. It’s your choice. You give him to me, and I go back to the identity I’ve been using for the last forty years. You see, it doesn’t make much difference whether you know my name or not. Gerry Spanner’s been dead and buried for a long time. Let’s go.” He waved the gun toward the side door.