The Good Friday Murder Page 6

  “My treat,” he said.

  “Sergeant, this is very much a business lunch, and you’re the one doing me the favor.”

  That seemed to amuse him. “How’s about your treat next time?”

  By the time he had said it, the waitress had picked up check and bills and was on her way to the cashier.

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s get back to the house and look at that file.”

  9

  The day was beautiful, warm and dry. The intense humid heat of summer had not yet attacked the city. A slight breeze carried the scent of fruits and vegetables from a small shop as we passed.

  “You a teacher?” he asked.

  “Yes. How’d you guess? Was I very schoolmarmish at lunch?”

  “Nothing like that. It’s June and you’re not working. Just seemed the obvious thing. What do you teach?”

  “English.”

  “Ah.”

  “Poetry,” I said, to allay his fears. “Not grammar.”

  “That’s good. High school?”

  “College. I’ll be teaching a course this fall on Poetry and the Contemporary American Woman.” I laughed at my private joke.

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “I think so, too.”

  “I took seven years to get a college degree while I was on the job.”

  I was impressed. “That must have meant lots of long days and hard nights.”

  “It was. But it was worth it. I think I missed the course on Poetry and the Contemporary American Woman.”

  I laughed again. “So did I. I wanted to spend the summer preparing for it. That was until I took on the Talley murder.”

  “Well, we’ll see where it goes. By the way, my name is Jack.”

  “Hi. I’m Chris.” I offered my hand and we shook. He had a nice firm grip. As I said, I like that.

  “Get anything done on the course so far?” he asked.

  “Just the very beginning. I thought I should start out with something very concrete, very fundamental.”

  “Like what?”

  “ ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,’ ” I quoted.

  “Amen,” Sergeant Jack Brooks said, opening the door to the station house.

  —

  The file for DD case number 211/50 was large, heavy, and tied with a piece of dirty old string. Although the sergeant—I hadn’t yet come to think of him as Jack—had felt some reservations about the thoroughness of the investigation, it turned out to be far more complete than I had anticipated.

  The most compelling part of the file was the photographs. They were black-and-white and the most gruesome things I had ever seen. Looking at them, you could almost believe the photographer had some neurotic need to show horror. There were pictures of Mrs. Talley taken from every conceivable angle, and pictures of the kitchen to show bloodstains and spatterings. The knife was photographed. Smudges of blood in the twins’ room and the bathroom were photographed.

  After seeing the body, you could understand the quote I had read on microfilm: “Only a madman could have done something like that.” She had been slashed everywhere.

  But “madman” wasn’t a term I would use to describe the twins. They were retarded, but far from “mad.”

  “Pretty gory,” Jack Brooks said at my side.

  “Worse than I expected.”

  “In 1950 forensics was pretty much the crime scene. They took a lot of pictures and had someone do a sketch of the crime scene.” He rummaged in the file. “Here it is, signed and dated.” He laid it in front of me.

  It was done on graph paper, but it looked like one of those diagrams of an apartment for rent, except that furniture was also sketched in, and in the kitchen section there was an outline of a body and a notation of where the knife was found. The dimensions of each room were noted. The living room was twelve by twenty, a nice-size room, and both bedrooms were generous. I made a quick sketch in my notebook and set the pictures and diagrams aside to look at the interviews.

  On the basis of Magda’s testimony, the police had visited Mrs. Talley’s hairdresser on King’s Highway. Yes, she had had a ten-thirty appointment on Good Friday, and yes, she had arrived on time. Marie Guerreira had shampooed her and set her hair in pin curls. Mrs. Talley had sat under the hair dryer for about her usual thirty minutes, reading one of the women’s magazines the shop subscribed to. Marie had then combed her out. Before leaving, Mrs. Talley had wished her a Happy Easter.

  There were also records of interviews with so many of the Talleys’ neighbors that I was impressed in spite of myself. I went through them fairly quickly. They didn’t seem to add much, partly because at least half the neighbors didn’t really know who Mrs. Talley was. Almost all of them had seen the twins, but that was as far as “knowing the Talleys” went. Many of the tenants were afraid of the twins, but the officers doing the questioning didn’t delve into why. The fear just seemed to add credence to the obvious, that Robert and James had knifed their mother to death.

  I paused over the interview with Selma Franklin. Although the interviews were notes of conversations, not transcribed tapes or statements written by those interviewed, phrases that I had heard Mrs. Franklin say leaped off the page at me. “She would walk her children, I would walk mine.” “Mrs. T: What color is the light? Green. Mrs. T: We can cross the street.” It had been a very powerful memory.

  What interested me most was the interview with Patrick Talley, the twins’ father. Patrick Talley had carved out a whole new life for himself, separate from his wife and sons, and perhaps unknown to them. He lived in New Jersey, not far from the George Washington Bridge, in a small house “with a younger woman” named Anne Garfield, but the name on the door was Talley. Besides the “younger woman,” there were also two children, Patrick Jr. and Kathleen. I felt a lot of emotion when I read that. From the ages of the children, fourteen and twelve, I figured he had left his first family before the twins were fourteen years old, possibly long before, and set up a second household without benefit of divorce or clergy. I wondered as I began the interviews with Mr. Talley and Anne whether the children knew the reality of their parents’ relationship. Considering their ages and the era we were talking about, I guessed that they didn’t.

  Patrick Talley Sr. was an insurance salesman, and apparently quite a good one. He and his second family lived comfortably, if not sumptuously, on his earnings alone. Anne Garfield, who said she was known as Mrs. Talley, was a housewife and mother. She had her own car, she explained, because Pat needed one full-time for his business.

  As for Patrick Talley’s whereabouts on Good Friday, he had had a morning appointment at a small plant in New Jersey (for which he had landed the account), which had developed into lunch. He had returned home about three-corroborated by Anne—done the paperwork required by the morning’s work, and taken a nap before dinner. No one in the family went to church.

  It became clear as I read that the parents were very anxious to keep all knowledge of the terrible events of Good Friday a secret from their children, strengthening my belief that they knew nothing of their father’s marriage and less about his other offspring.

  I wrote down the address in New Jersey with little hope of finding anyone who would remember Patrick Talley, but at least it was a starting point.

  At three I took a break from my reading and found the Brooklyn phone book. I looked up both Wandowska and Wandowski but found no Magda and no one at the 1950 address. According to the file, her father’s name had been Peter, and he might still be alive today, but if so, he didn’t have a phone listed in his name, or he had moved. Her mother’s name had been Anna, and there was no listing for her either.

  “Find anything?”

  I looked up. Jack Brooks was standing beside the desk I was sitting at with the directory open before me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Try Wandowski?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hold on. Let me ask one of the guys.”

  He went to an occupied des
k and I heard him say something about a church in some other area of Brooklyn. When he came back, he said, “Infant of Prague. I’ll write down how you get there. Sure you want to do this yourself?”

  “You bet.”

  He wrote several lines on a sheet of paper and handed it to me folded. “How ‘bout giving me your number so I can call you if I think of anything.”

  I gave it to him.

  “Think you’ll be back?”

  “I’m sure of it. But first I’d like to find Magda.”

  He looked at his watch. “You probably ought to get going. You’ve got a long drive, and once you get into rush hour, everything starts overheating.”

  “I’ll just tidy up.” We went back to the desk with the Talley file and I put things in order, got a fresh piece of string, and tied up the precious package. “This detective, Kevin O’Connor,” I said. “I see his name everywhere. I first noticed it in one of the newspaper articles.”

  “He was the guy assigned to the case. The first two cops who answered Magda’s call probably walked in the apartment, saw what was up, and called for the uniform patrol sergeant. He comes over and calls the precinct detective squad. When they get there, they give the case a complaint number. That’s on this UF61 form here.” He showed it to me. “Then they call the Brooklyn Homicide Squad, and O’Connor’s the guy who’s catching cases at the time. He’s probably pretty ticked off; it’s Easter, and the last thing he needs is to do overtime. I’d bet he stopped for something to eat before he answered the call.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Never. A cop always thinks about where his next meal is coming from. Homicide investigations are always long and drawn-out. If you don’t eat before it starts, you may not get a chance for hours. Anyway, he goes to the address and adds a homicide number to the complaint number. That’s his handwriting here.”

  “And then he starts his investigation.”

  “Which lasts for hours and hours in the apartment.”

  “How can I find him?”

  Jack Brooks took a folded sheet of paper off his desk, turned it to a clean side, and made a note. “I’ll look into it.”

  “Thank you. Lots.” I gathered my notes and my bag.

  Jack Brooks walked me out of the building.

  “Thank you,” I said again when we were on the sidewalk.

  “Can we get together some time?” he asked.

  Of course, I had known it was coming, and of course, I didn’t want to deal with it right now. “Sure,” I said, happy that I could get the single syllable out in one piece. “ ’Bye.”

  “So long.”

  I turned back halfway down the block. He was still watching me and I waved. When I got home, I marched into the bathroom, stood in front of the medicine chest, and stared at my face in the mirror.

  10

  I’m not bad-looking. My hair is kind of a nice shade of brown, still pretty short because of the habit I wore. I’d been blowing it dry without benefit of mirror, but it seemed to do the right thing naturally, which is certainly a plus. My face is fine. It’s got the usual number of eyes and nose, and put together, I’d say it’s not unpleasing. How’s that for modesty?

  You understand I have never had a relationship with a man. I’ve met men who were attractive to me and some who found me attractive. But let me set the record straight: I didn’t leave St. Stephen’s because I had formed a relationship with a man or because I wanted to. Nor did I leave because I had uncontrollable urges. I left because I felt I had accomplished all I could as a nun. I wanted to do more with my life, and I needed to be outside the convent to achieve anything new.

  From the time my leaving the convent started to look like a possibility, I thought about marrying and having children. I wasn’t sure how it would happen, but I felt that the smart thing would be to move slowly. I scarcely imagined that less than a month after I moved to Oakwood, I would meet an attractive man who would want to take me out. It was a little unnerving. But it goes without saying it made me feel warm and happy and started certain formerly repressed emotions working.

  —

  The phone rang before nine on Saturday morning.

  “This is Virginia McAlpin. I hope it isn’t too early to telephone?”

  “Not at all.” I had already walked and breakfasted.

  “I’ve been in touch with Dr. Sanderson. He’s my contact at New Hope. Do you think you might be able to see him on Monday? I tried to call several times yesterday, but you weren’t home.”

  “I spent most of the day at a police station in Brooklyn.”

  “Good heavens.” She sounded shocked. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”

  “I was reading the file on the Talley murder, Mrs. McAlpin.”

  “Oh my, you really are humming along.”

  I didn’t feel like recounting what I’d done, especially because I had nothing substantive to report, so I ignored her leading comment. “I’d like very much to see Dr. Sanderson on Monday. Where exactly is New Hope located?”

  “Up near Albany, but not that far. You could go up to 287 and cut west to Route 9. That’s the scenic route. Or you could take—”

  I knew Route 9 like the back of my hand. It was the road to St. Stephen’s. “Fine,” I said. “I know the area. It shouldn’t take more than two hours.”

  “Less,” Mrs. McAlpin said. “Dr. Sanderson drives it himself frequently.”

  I wrote down his name, Elmont Sanderson, and directions to the hospital. Mrs. McAlpin said she would confirm our 11:00 A.M. appointment.

  Then I drove to Brooklyn to find the Church of the Infant of Prague.

  —

  It was large and old and stone, the way I like churches to be. I walked in through the great front doors to admire the interior. Then I lit three candles, one each for my father, mother, and Aunt Meg. I can’t tell you I have any belief connected with that, but it’s the sort of thing they would want me to do, and I do it whenever I enter a church.

  I found the office and went inside. A middle-aged woman sat at the desk.

  I said, “Good morning,” and she looked up.

  She smiled as if she meant it. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m trying to find someone who was probably married in this church about thirty-five years ago. Maybe a little more.”

  “May I ask you why?”

  “Someone she knew was murdered in 1950. I need to talk to her about it. I think she would want to speak to me. She felt the people charged with the murder didn’t do it. I feel the same way.”

  “Just a moment.” She pushed herself away from the desk. “Let me see if Father is free.”

  I hoped he would be. Every Catholic church keeps records of the banns of matrimony, and it’s a simple thing to look up a name if you have some idea of the time frame. Girls usually marry in their parish church. If Magda had married, this was the place that would have the records.

  The secretary returned. “Father Olshansky will see you now,” she said formally.

  “Thank you.” I went through the door, and she pulled it shut behind me.

  Father Olshansky was not young, but he wasn’t old enough to have been here in 1950. “I understand you’re looking for a parishioner,” he said, folding his hands on the desk in front of him.

  “Her name was Magda Wandowska,” I said, and gave him a little background.

  He didn’t seem familiar with the Talley murder, but he was pleased that I was working on behalf of the sons. “Let’s check the banns,” he said. “What year would that have been?”

  “I don’t really know,” I admitted. “But it must have been after April 1950.”

  “Good enough.” He went to his file, and I watched him move quickly through the cards.

  She must have married, I thought, wondering what I would do if Father Olshansky failed to find her name.

  “Well, here we are,” he said. “June of 1952. Magda Wandowska and Richard Zygowsky.”

  I was scribbling as he spoke. He spelled
the name and I printed it carefully. “Wonderful,” I breathed.

  “Now let’s look at the current census and see if they’re still in the parish.” He tried another file but failed to find the name. “They may have moved, of course, but they would have come to us for baptism records and the like. Let’s see if they had any children while they still lived here.”

  It was plain he enjoyed detecting, and I was happy to have him enjoy himself.

  “Well, there we are, a boy, named after his father, born in 1954. That would make him about thirty-six now, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Yes, indeed. You deserve a medal, Father.”

  “But we haven’t found her yet, have we? Let’s see if Mrs. Zygowsky was a faithful member of the Legion of Mary.” He went on with his poking through records. “Aha. She certainly was. And moved away in 1965.”

  “Would you happen to know where?” At this point, I was holding my breath.

  “It looks as though Father Thomascevich wrote a letter to the new parish and forwarded the records. They moved to Queens.” He called off the address and I wrote it in my book.

  I put my book back in my bag and took out my wallet. “I’d like to leave a gift for the church, Father. Do you have a box for St. Anthony?” St. Anthony, if you’re not up on your saints, helps people to find things.

  “You’ll find it near the front door.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “And thank you, Sister.”

  I had turned toward the door when I heard the word. “How did you know?” I asked, turning back.

  “Oh, the hair mostly. Looks chopped up, the way the nuns have it who wear a habit. Have you given up the habit or given up the convent?”

  “I left the convent,” I said, feeling just a little guilty for the first time.

  “I’m sorry. We lose so many of our best. Well, good luck in your search.”

  —

  I found a stationery store about a block from the church and bought one of those Hagstrom’s maps of Queens. Then I went into a phone booth and called information.

  The Zygowskys lived at the address the priest had given me. I dialed the number.

  “Hello?” It was sort of a pinched voice.