The Good Friday Murder Page 4

  “What can I do for you?” the officer asked.

  “My name is Christine Bennett,” I said.

  “Ah-hah,” he responded automatically.

  “And I’m looking into a murder that happened in this precinct forty years ago.”

  He practically rolled his eyes. “Ah-hah,” he said as I spoke.

  “It’s very important, Officer—” I glanced at the name tag just below his badge “—Korb.”

  “Ah-hah.”

  I was somewhat disconcerted. “The men who were thought to be guilty of the crime—”

  Officer Korb was shaking his head. “See, lady,” he said, interrupting me finally with a new syllable, “we don’t even have the records for that in this building. This building wasn’t here forty years ago.”

  “But surely those—”

  “ ’Scuse me,” a voice behind me said. “Is this something the squad can help you with?”

  I turned to see a kind of nice-looking guy about my age in a sport jacket.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Whyn’t you give it a shot, Sarge?” Officer Korb said, relief all over his tired face.

  “Hi, I’m Sergeant Brooks.” He stuck out his free right hand and we shook. “Come on upstairs.”

  We went up to a room filled with desks, mostly men and a couple of women working at them. There was an empty one at the far end, and Sergeant Brooks hung his things up, took off his jacket, and made himself comfortable at the desk, while telling me to do the same.

  “Officer Korb’s a little overworked,” he said with a grin that let me know Officer Korb had never been overworked in his life.

  “I could see that.”

  “What seems to be your problem?”

  Here we go again, I thought, psyching myself up for another try. “Believe it or not, I’m looking into a murder that happened in this precinct forty years ago, and I’d like to see whatever records the police department has on it. I can give you names and dates and—”

  I had hoped to say enough that he would be unable to turn me down flatly, but he stopped me. “Whoa, hold on. When did this happen?”

  “April 7, 1950. The victim’s name was Alberta Talley.”

  “Alberta Tally.” He wrote on a piece of folded paper.

  “E-Y,” I corrected him, reading his writing upside down.

  “Oh, sorry.” He scratched it out and wrote it over. “Can I ask why you’re interested in something that happened forty years ago? Did it involve a relative of yours?”

  “No. It was a murder without a conviction, but two people have spent forty years in a prison atmosphere because it was thought that they did it. I don’t know whether they did or not, but I need to find out. Something very important depends on it.”

  “Okay, tell me about it.”

  “Now?”

  “Sure. Talk. They pay me to listen.”

  I said, “Thank you. Today you’ll earn it.”

  —

  He was a good listener, and I told him almost everything I knew, as well as why I needed the information. He took notes in a spiral pad and asked occasional questions, and I drew a sense of confidence from that. When I finished my recitation, I sat back in my chair. “That’s it,” I said.

  “Okay.” He tapped his pencil on the desk twice. “I think I can find that file for you, but I can’t do it now. It’s not in this building. Files that old are in the borough headquarters. I’ll go down there and hunt them up.”

  “You will?” I must have sounded incredulous.

  “I’ll give it a shot and see what happens.”

  “Will the autopsy report be in the file?”

  “A copy should be.”

  “That’s great.” I felt as though I were already halfway there.

  “Better give me a call tomorrow before you come down. What borough do you live in?”

  “Borough? Oh, you mean New York. I live in Oakwood.”

  “You came down here from there for this?”

  “Yes, and I’ll be back as soon as you find that file.”

  “Here’s my card.”

  I looked at it. Sergeant John M. Brooks. “I’m Christine Bennett. Can I call you at nine?”

  “I’m on ten to six tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.” I stood and offered my hand. “An awful lot,” I added as we shook.

  —

  I drove back to Ocean Avenue and had the kind of luck New Yorkers always hope for. As I coasted down the street, my eyes peeled for a parking space, someone pulled out and I had one. It was still too early to eat lunch, and my sandwich and can of soda were safely cold in Aunt Meg’s plastic picnic box packed with a bag of ice. I left it in the car and found the Talleys’ apartment house.

  I must admit to a certain feeling of discomfort at the thought of ringing bells and knocking on the doors of strangers. Part of that was, I think, an ordinary fear of being considered a little weird. Most people alive today weren’t born forty years ago, and I would probably encounter more people—many more—who didn’t remember the Talley murder than would. But the other part of my reticence was, I’m sure, a product of the way I’d lived for the second half of my life, all my adult life until three weeks ago.

  I hadn’t been cloistered as Mrs. McAlpin had assumed. In many ways I was an ordinary teacher of English literature in a college for women. I met the parents of my students and spent lovely hours walking, talking, and dining with the girls I taught. I knew what problems they had, because they confided in me. But at this moment I felt sorely deficient in what they call interpersonal relationships. Talking to strangers was not, as my students would have said, my bag.

  But there was no other way. I entered the small foyer of the Talleys’ building and looked around. There was a bank of mailboxes on the left wall, and another bank on the right. In front of me was a pair of double doors made of glass panes, heavy wood, and fairly shiny brass. But the door was locked.

  The only way to enter was with a key or by being buzzed in by a tenant. I didn’t know any of the tenants, and I was not about to ring bells and hope someone would push a buzzer. Maybe some other time, but not today.

  I went back out into the sunshine. Across the street were three private houses wedged between two large apartment buildings. The houses seemed much less threatening, and I crossed the street and went to the nearest one.

  A child answered my ring and called her mother, who quickly informed me that they had lived there for only seven years, and the tenants upstairs for two. But, she added helpfully, there was a very old man next door who had lived there a long time.

  I thanked her, went down the stone steps and up those of the adjoining house. These houses were so close together that there wasn’t room between them to park a car, although one of them had what looked like a narrow driveway. It had probably been built in the days when cars were a lot smaller than they are today.

  All three houses had tiny front lawns, but this house had rather elaborate plantings as well and a Japanese red maple in the center of the lawn. Someone obviously cared and put time into gardening.

  My ring was answered by a middle-aged woman in a housedress. She looked at me with that mixture of curiosity and apprehension that I was to find frequently in New Yorkers who encounter strangers.

  “Good morning,” I said. “My name is Christine Bennett and I’m looking into something that happened in this area in 1950. I know that’s a long time ago, but I wonder if you or anyone in your house might remember and be able to help me.”

  She sized me up for a long moment. “You mean the murder?” she asked.

  I felt a surge of hope. “The Talley murder, yes.”

  “I was very young at the time,” she said, and I knew she didn’t want to tell me how old or I might figure out her age. “My father would remember it better than I would.”

  “I would be so grateful if you would let me talk to him, and to you, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  She thought about it. “Who did you say
you were?”

  “Christine Bennett. I can show you some identification.” I took my wallet out of my bag and pulled out my driver’s license, glancing at it as I did so. I stopped, holding it in midair. The picture showed a smiling nun.

  Before I could withdraw it, the woman had taken it from my hand. “Oh, you’re a nun. Come in, Sister.”

  I had a quick attack of conscience. The last thing I wanted to do was deceive. “I’m not a nun anymore,” I admitted, hoping I wasn’t destroying my chance to talk to her father. “I’ve left the convent.”

  “I see. Well, come in. I’m Mrs. Cappicola, and my father’s name is Antonetti. Wait here and I’ll get him.”

  She walked off with my license, and I remembered Aunt Meg saying that Italians were such good gardeners. It was a stereotype I thought they might be proud of.

  Mrs. Cappicola returned a few minutes later with a small old man with white hair and a white mustache. We said hello and she handed my license back. The three of us sat in the living room.

  “You wanna know about the murder?” the old man asked from his easy chair.

  “Yes, please.”

  “You wanna tell me why?”

  “I’d like to find out if the twins really did it.”

  “They went to jail, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, but there was no trial, and I’m not sure there was much of an investigation.”

  “I think they done it.”

  “You do.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you ever see them, Mr. Antonetti?”

  “Oh, sure. Saturday and Sunday they used to walk sometimes on the street. I was a young man then, forty-four years old. I didn’t sit in the house and look out the window like I do now. But I saw them.”

  “Were you afraid of them?”

  “Not for myself, no. But for my wife and daughters, sure.”

  “I was afraid.” It was the daughter.

  I turned to her. “Why?”

  “They didn’t look—right.”

  “But did they ever do anything to make you afraid? Did they grab at people or talk to people in the street or fight with their mother?”

  “Nah,” the father said. “They walked, one on this side o’ her, one on that side. That’s all.”

  “I used to see them with the girl sometimes,” Mrs. Cappicola said. “The blond girl. She’s the one that found them.”

  “Were you here when the police came?”

  “We was in church,” the old man said. “It was Easter. We come home, the whole side of the street was filled with blue-and-white police cars.”

  “I saw them carry the body out,” Mrs. Cappicola said in a low voice. “I never saw anything like that ever again. I saw them take those twins out. They had handcuffs on.” She shook her head. “To think something like that happened right here.”

  “You didn’t happen to know Mrs. Talley, did you?” I asked.

  The old man smiled. “There’s a million people livin’ in those buildings. They’re all strangers. Every one of them.”

  I had only one more question. “What about the father? Did you ever see him?”

  The old man shrugged, and his daughter pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Wasn’t no father,” Mr. Antonetti said. “I read that in the papers.”

  “Thank you.” I went over and shook his hand. “I appreciate the time you’ve given me.”

  “Well,” the daughter said, “I hope it’s been a help.”

  I assured her it had and left them, but I didn’t think it had done me much good. I went to the last of the three houses and rang the bell, but no one was home. It was time for lunch, so I went back to the car and ate my sandwich.

  7

  I am a persistent person. With half a day left and a strong desire not to waste time, I returned to the Talleys’ apartment house. It was true there was no way in other than to ring bells at random or wait for someone to come in or out and hope to gain access that way, but there was also a superintendent in the basement apartment. I rang that bell, got an almost immediate buzz, and took the elevator down one flight.

  A woman in her forties or fifties—I am notoriously bad at guessing age—opened the door. “Hi,” she said in an almost friendly way. “If you’re looking for an apartment, we’re full up and there’s a waiting list.”

  “It’s a beautiful building,” I said. “I love the brass in the lobby.”

  I had obviously said the right thing. She smiled. “I take care of that myself.”

  “I’m not looking for an apartment today. Actually, I’m looking into a murder that happened here in 1950.”

  “Oh, that big one, where the twins did it.”

  “Yes, that’s the one. You’re much too young to remember it yourself, but I wonder if you know of anyone in the building who might have been living here at the time.”

  “Well, let’s see.” She thought for a moment. “Come on in while I check.”

  “Thank you.” I went into a small living room and waited.

  The woman disappeared and came back with a book. “I got all the tenants in here and when they moved in. What year was that again?”

  “Nineteen fifty.”

  “Nineteen fifty. This’ll take a minute.” She put her glasses on, opened the book, and started turning pages. “Would you mind telling me why?” she asked, looking up.

  “I have an interest in the twins, the sons of the murdered woman.”

  “The ones that did it, you mean.”

  “Well, the ones they think did it.”

  “You mean maybe they didn’t?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” She went back to the book. “Here’s one, Selma Franklin, 4C. Lived there since 1938.”

  I was truly amazed. “You mean she’s lived in the same apartment over fifty years?”

  “Guess so. She’s told me a million times, she moved in as a bride, raised her kids, buried her husband. ‘They’ll carry me out,’ she said. And they will. She ain’t movin’ for nobody. They’d love to get her out, if you know what I mean. Beautiful two-bedroom. They could get a mint for it. But she’s a senior citizen; they can’t budge her, can’t raise her rent. Here’s another one, Annie Halpern, 6E. Moved in in 1948. She don’t hear so good now.”

  I was writing it all down, feeling encouraged.

  “I thought there was more, but I guess that’s it. A lot moved to Florida, and a bunch of them died since we got here twelve years ago.”

  “I wonder, would you take me to see one of those women? Maybe Mrs. Franklin, since her hearing is better.”

  “Yeah, I guess I could.”

  I realized I should reward her for her trouble. I took a ten-dollar bill out of my wallet and handed it to her. “I’m really very grateful to you,” I said.

  “Aw, you don’t have to do that,” she said, taking the ten.

  “That’s all right.”

  “Come on. We’ll try 4C.”

  —

  Selma Franklin was a tiny, round woman whose face was always on the verge of a smile. She was so happy to have company, to have someone to drink tea and eat cookies with her, that I felt if I learned nothing from her, the time spent would not be a waste.

  The living room was immaculate, beautifully furnished, with family photographs on nearly every horizontal surface. The more than fifty years of memories were well documented, and I felt myself in the company of a happy woman.

  “Eat, darling,” Mrs. Franklin said when I sipped my tea but took nothing from the tray of cookies.

  “Thank you.” I took a cookie and bit into it. It was delicious. “You must have been expecting me,” I said.

  “I expect, they come. People are always coming. I have friends, neighbors. The children are all coming by.”

  “I can see why.”

  “You want to know about the murder?” The superintendent’s wife had explained the reason for my visit.

  “Whatever you remember.”

  “Eve
rything,” she said. “Like it was yesterday. The police, the sirens, the reporters asking everybody questions. Who would expect such a thing to happen on the next floor?”

  “Did you know Mrs. Talley?”

  “We would say hello. We lived in the same building for twelve years, after all. She would walk her children, I would walk mine. ‘Hello, Mrs. Talley, I see you’re out with the children,’ I would say, and she would say, ‘Hello, Mrs. Franklin. Look at how your boy is growing.’ That’s how we talked.”

  “How did the boys act with her, Mrs. Franklin?”

  “Quiet. Good behavior. They looked around. They walked. I didn’t see them talk much.”

  “Were they ever—” I hesitated “—violent?”

  The round face broke into a wonderful smile. “They were quiet boys. There was a little something wrong with them, that’s all.” She reached over to offer the tray. “Have another cookie, darling.”

  I took one, just to keep her going.

  “You know, in my husband’s family there was one like that, a boy, a nice boy, but he didn’t grow up. He stayed a child. He had a good heart. He would draw pictures. They even got him a job later, delivering messages. He always had a smile, that boy. You couldn’t be afraid of him. And those twins, they were good boys. If she said, ‘Say hello to Mrs. Franklin,’ they would say hello. If she said, ‘Robert, what color is the light?’ he would say, ‘Green,’ and she would say, ‘Then we can cross the street.’ ”

  “Then you must have been very surprised to hear they murdered their mother.”

  “Listen to me, sweetheart, the police have got to find someone. You go in an apartment, there’s a dead woman and two poor sons with blood all over them, it looks like they did it. When did you ever see the police overwork themselves?”

  “So you think it’s possible they didn’t do it.”

  “What does it matter what I think?” She got up from her deep chair and poured both of us more tea. “I love a cup of tea,” she said.

  “It matters,” I said to her, and when I saw the puzzled look on her face, I added, “It matters to me what you think.”

  “What I think is that they didn’t look too hard and they didn’t find anyone else, and they had these two poor children who touched everything in the apartment the way children do and they couldn’t explain anything, so that was that. What else I think is that someone else could have done it.”