Barry Friedman - Dead End (5 page)

The water in the pool at Firestone Park, outside
Youngstown was still cold even though the air temperature was 82. It would be
mid-July before the water would be warm enough to stay in for longer than a few
minutes. Annie Maharos’ lips were blue and she shivered as she shook her hair
out of her bathing cap while she jogged to where Al Maharos sat on a blanket
spread out on the spacious lawn surrounding the public pool. She flopped down
on the blanket next to him. His plaid shorts had gone out of style ten years
ago, but the hell with it. Why spring for a new pair then wear them once a
year? A floppy hat kept his scalp from burning. A picnic basket next to the
blanket was filled with ham and egg salad sandwiches and cans of Coke and two cans
of beer for him. They had made the sandwiches in his apartment that morning
before taking off for the park.

Maharos looked up at the sun. “Getting hungry
yet?”

“I guess I could eat,” said Annie.

She reached into the basket and handed him one of
the ham sandwiches. She unwrapped an egg salad sandwich for herself and popped
open a can of Coke.

“What a day,” said Maharos. He hadn’t felt this
much at ease for months. A lump filled his throat as he gazed at Annie. She
wore a flowered Bikini that covered almost nothing of her thin body. He noticed
that she was starting to bud breasts. She’ll have nice boobs like Marcie, he
thought.

“Going out much?”

Annie looked at him through the hair that covered
part of her face. “You mean am I dating?”

“Uh-huh.”

She shrugged. “Tommy Ames took me to the June
dance at school. His Mom drove us. After, we went to The Liberty for ice cream.
I went to the movies with him last week too”

“What, are you going steady with Tommy?”

“Oh Daddy!”

“Just asking.”

She shoved his shoulder and grinned. “What is
this going to be, a lecture on the birds and bees?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’re ready.”

“Oh, Daddy!”

Maharos was a little embarrassed talking to her
about sex, but he didn’t know how much she already knew. “Hey, I see kids your
age get in all kinds of trouble. I want to be sure you aren’t one of them.”

“Oh, Daddy. Don’t be such an old fud. Next you’ll
be asking me if I’m on the pill.”

Jesus. “You know about the pill already.” It was
a statement, not a question.

“ ‘Course. Anyway, don’t worry. I know how to
take care of myself—and I’m
not
on
the pill.”

The kids today. He’d have to have a talk with
Marcie. Find out what Annie knew and didn’t know.

Annie was taking small nibbles of her egg salad
sandwich. She looked at Maharos out of the corners of her eyes. “Wanna hear
something? Janie? You know, Janie Boyd? Well she started her periods. We went
to see ‘Ghostbusters II’ and just when it got exciting, Janie pokes me and
goes, ‘I got a terrible cramp.’ I go, ‘Oh no!’ And she goes, ‘I gotta go to the
bathroom. Please, come along with me.’ These guys we know from school are
sitting in front of us? And when they see us get up they start whistling and
stuff. So we go to the Ladies Room and her panties are soaked with blood. Yuck!
Well, they had one of those machines, you know, like Coke machines—.”

“Vending machines.”

“What?”

“They’re called vending machines. You put a
quarter or a half a dollar in them and you get a sanitary napkin.”

“Only you had to put three quarters in these.
Seventy-five cents! For one little pad! Anyway, we both only had dollar bills.
So I had to run out to the cashier and get change…”

Annie was waving her arms telling the story.

Maharos sat on the grass grinning. He
half-listened to what she was saying. He loved to hear her talk with such
animation and enthusiasm.

“—so can we go to Sea World later this
afternoon?”

She caught him by surprise. He hadn’t realized
that she had finished telling about Janie’s period.

“Way over to Geauga Lake Park? That’s a good
half-hour drive.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“You said we could have the whole day together.”

Maharos shrugged a shoulder. “Okay. I guess I owe
you one anyway, for last weekend.”

Annie jumped up, threw her arms around his neck
and planted a wet kiss mixed with egg salad on his cheek. “You’re fun to be
with, Daddy. I wish it wasn’t only on Sundays.”

“Hey, let’s not get into that again.”

They finished eating, and while Annie went into
the ladies locker room to change into a sun suit, Maharos folded the blanket
and packed up the picnic basket.

*
  
*
  
*

It was six o’clock and they were in Maharos’
Ford, driving back to Youngstown. Annie was still chattering about the acts the
dolphins and Shamu had put on at Sea World. Maharos was peacefully quiet,
wearing a faint grin. He was content to listen, occasionally making a comment.
The pager on his belt beeped.

He pulled over to the side of the highway and
glanced at the beeper. The call was from Joe Byers, the duty officer in the
detective squad room at Youngstown police headquarters. He punched it in on his
cell phone.

Byers said, “Hate to bother you on a Sunday, Al.
Something came in over the wire that Fiala said you’d be interested in.”

“Yeah?”

“New Philly reported a homicide and Frank thought
the M.O. was something like the one you were working on. The one where that
lawyer got iced?”

“Horner?”

“That’s the one. Anyway, the guy in New Philly
was found with his head bashed in and shot in the back.

Sounded promising.

“When did the New Philly homicide take place?”

“The doc thinks it was around noon today.”

Maharos glanced to the car where Annie was
resting her chin on the sill of the car window. Her eyes were closed; she’d had
a busy day. “Okay. I’m up near Akron. I’ve got to take my daughter home. I’ll
be in the office in about an hour. You can fill me in on whatever you’ve got
then.”

Maharos yawned, stretched and said, “Want me to
drive?”

Frank Fiala glanced over to the passenger’s seat.
“Have a nice snooze?”

Maharos had been dozing in the seat next to Fiala
during the 90-mile drive from Youngstown to New Philadelphia.

He asked, “Tired driving?”

“Nah, we’re almost there. Know where the
Sheriff’s Office is?”

“Yeah, I’ll give you directions when we get into
town.”

Twenty minutes later, Fiala pulled the blue
Chevrolet into the parking lot next to the gray limestone Tuscarawas County
Administration Building. He parked in a space marked “Reserved for Sheriff
Vehicles.”

The receptionist in the Sheriff’s Office pointed
down the corridor, “Sheriff Anderson’s office is 208. You can go right on
down.”

Sheriff Thomas Anderson pushed himself up from
his desk chair, a broad smile on his beefy face, and extended a hand the size
of a catcher’s mitt. He was a giant, six feet six, weighing almost 300 pounds.
His upper arms bulged the seams of his sweat-stained uniform short-sleeved
shirt. “Glad to be of help. How was your trip down from the big city?”

Maharos said, “Thanks for seeing us Sheriff. The
big city? Listen, it’s been a few years since I got down here. This place has
grown. You’re not too much smaller than Youngstown.” He was thinking that
Anderson himself wasn’t a hell of a lot smaller than Youngstown. Enough small
talk. “What have you got so far on that homicide?”

“Hamberger? Noah was a hay and feed dealer here
in New Philly. Everybody around here knew the guy. Tough businessman but
honest, hard worker.” He shook his head, “Sorry to see old Noah go. The son of
a bitch that killed him oughta fry. But these fuckin’ liberal courts…
Prob’bly get away with a manslaughter conviction. Guy never had a job in his
life, sat around all day suckin’ wine out of a bottle.”

Maharos and Fiala looked at each other. Maharos
said, “You mean you got a collar?”

Anderson’s eyebrows went up. “You didn’t get the
word? Oh yeah, you were on the road all morning. We pulled in this drifter
about six this morning. He had been hangin’ around town for about a week with
two other bums. They were sleepin’ in an empty shack about a mile out of town.
Come in every day to buy cheap wine and some grub. Our deputies’d kick ‘em out
of the shack but they’d go back. We’d ‘a pulled ‘em in before all this happened
but our jail space is so fuckin’ crowded. The last thing we needed was some
more smelly bodies.”

Maharos said, “You think he was the one that
killed Hamberger?”

Anderson leaned back, creaking the springs on his
chair. “Oh he’s the one, all right. Had Noah’s wallet in his sack.”

“Was he still in the shack when you found him?”

“Nah. Bastard was on the road, State Route 39,
tryin’ to hitch a ride. The other two took off. We’ve got a huntin’ party out.
We’ll pick ‘em up.”

Anderson sat forward and leaned his elbows on the
desk. He peered intently at Maharos. “On the phone last night you said
somethin’ about a connection between this case and one you’re workin’ on?”

Maharos shrugged. “Well, before you told us about
this suspect you’ve got, we thought the M.O. in your case sounded something
like a case we’re running. Now I’m not so sure.”

Fiala said. “Can we see your collar?”

“Sure. He’s upstairs in the lock-up. We’ve got an
interrogation room there. I’ll send one of the deputies up with you.”

Maharos said, “Has he got a lawyer yet?”

Anderson waved his hand, “Shit yes. We ran this
by the book. The public defender is a young squirt just out of law school. I’ll
get him down here. We’re runnin’ a NCIC check on the guy. Should have it on the
computer in a little while. Want some coffee?”

“That would be nice, thanks. By the way, did you
get a gunpowder residue test on your suspect?”

Anderson jutted out his jaw. “Hey, we may be
country cousins, but we know all about that scientific shit—just like you big
city boys. Yeah, the tech from the Mobile Lab is runnin’ the test. Don’t have
the results yet though.”

Maharos said nothing. The sheriff was obviously
touchy about the city detectives questioning his handling of the case. He would
have to back off. He might need the guy’s cooperation.

*
  
*
  
*

Maharos and Fiala were seated in the reception
area outside the sheriff’s office drinking coffee. A guy in a suit, early
thirties, tousled, sandy hair, came through the door and strode up to them. A
wide grin on his freckled face gave him a Tom Sawyer-like appearance. “Hi, you
the Youngstown detectives?”

Maharos nodded.

“I’m Harry Robinson, the public defender. I
understand you want to talk to my client.”

“If it’s okay with you—and him.”

“Want to tell me what it’s about?”

“We’re working a homicide by an unknown
perpetrator, happened just outside Youngstown. A lawyer named Horner. Maybe you
heard about it. We got word that the pattern of Mr. Hamberger’s murder has some
features that resemble those of Horner’s. We’d like to talk to your man.”

Robinson sat without speaking for ten seconds.
Finally, he said, “Do you really think there’s any connection between the two?”

Maharos said, “Frankly, we don’t know what to
think. We didn’t even know anybody had been pulled in on the Hamberger case
until we got down here a few minutes ago. We came down to get what information
we could, check out the scene, that sort of thing. But, as long as we’re here
and the sheriff has a suspect in custody, we’d like to ask him a few
questions.”

“I can’t see where it can do any harm,” said
Robinson. “I’ll have to ask my client, of course.”

In the elevator with Robinson and a deputy
sheriff, Maharos and Fiala were quiet. Robinson said, “Mind if I ask, what’s
the resemblance between this case and yours?”

Maharos said, “Sure. Both were gunned from
behind, two small caliber hits each, heads bashed in, too, and were left in
their vehicles on dirt roads close to I 77. One of the things we wanted to
check out was the ballistics from the Hamberger case to see if we’ve got a
match.”

Robinson asked, “Where near I 77?”

“Portage Lakes.”

“Where’s that?”

“Between Akron and Canton.”

“That’s a long way from here.”

Maharos shrugged.

Robinson said, “When was your guy killed?”

“About a month ago. In fact, just a month ago.”

“Any prints in your case?”

Maharos shook his head.

“Any suspects?”

“Nope.”

“Was the guy robbed?”

“Uh-huh.”

The elevator door opened and the four men got
out. The deputy walked ahead. Robinson turned and faced Maharos and Fiala.
“Wait, let me get this straight. There are two homicides, both of which were
caused by shots from behind, both had head injuries, the bodies were found near
I 77 about 50 miles apart, both were robbed and you think there’s a
similarity?”

Maharos smiled.

Robinson went on. “How many homicides were there
in Ohio the past month? How many were shot? How many were robbed? How many
people travel down I 77?”

 
“When you
put it that way, it’s pretty far-fetched.”

Robinson rolled his eyes. “Boy! Still want to
talk to my man?”

Fiala said, “Well, we’re here. What’ve we got to
lose?”

“Listen, the best thing I could wish for is that
both these murders were committed by the same person—and it turned out to be
someone other than the guy in here.”

They were standing outside the cellblock door.
The deputy spoke into a wall phone and another uniformed officer unlocked the
steel-barred door. He ushered them into the cellblock and clanged the door shut
behind them. He led them down a narrow cement corridor. On either side were two
barred cells. Maharos thought four cells was a little overkill for a community
the size of this farm county. Still, each small cell held two prisoners who
watched in silence from the double-decker bunks on which they sat or lay
sprawled. The confined space smelled like the dregs of a wine barrel mixed with
the odor of urine. At the end of the corridor was a windowless interrogation
room furnished with a wooden table and four chairs. The three men sat waiting
while the deputy went back to get the prisoner.

Fiala placed a small portable tape recorder on
the table and pressed the “record” button.

Maharos said, “What’s your client’s name?”

“Roy Young,” said Robinson.

A moment later, the deputy returned leading a
tall, thin-faced man in his early twenties, wearing a prison gray coverall
stenciled in front with large black letters that read “Property of Tuscarawas
County.” On the back, were even larger letters that read “Prisoner.” A lock of
dark brown hair hung over one eye. A stubble beard covered the lower half of
his face. His hands were manacled behind his back and his gaze was fixed to the
floor. When he was seated, the deputy unlocked the handcuffs and remained
standing alongside him.

Maharos said, “You can leave him with us. We’ll
yell for you when we’re through.”

The deputy nodded and left.

Fiala talked to the tape recorder. “Today is June
8. It is 11:45 a.m. and we are in the Tuscarawas County Administration
Building. Present are: Homicide Detectives Al Maharos and Frank Fiala,
Youngstown P.D., Harry Robinson, Tuscarawas County Public Defender and Roy
Young, suspect being held in the County Jail.

Robinson turned to the prisoner. “Roy, these are
detectives from Youngstown. They’re working on a case up there and want to ask
you some questions. Is that okay with you?”

Young looked up for the first time. Creases
appeared between his brows. “Youngstown?”

Maharos asked, “Ever been there?”

“I don’t even know where it is.” His voice was
accented with an Appalachian drawl.

Robinson held up a hand. “For the record, Roy,
are you willing to answer their questions?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”

“Yes.”

Robinson nodded at Maharos. “All right Detective
Maharos. You may proceed.”

Maharos fixed his gaze on the young attorney for
five seconds. He thought, kid’s just out of law school, already he’s a judge.
He turned to the prisoner. “Mr. Young, do you have an address?”

“Shit no.”

“How long have you been in New Philadelphia?”

Young shrugged a shoulder, “I don’t know, couple’a
weeks.”

“Where were you before you came here?”

He looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see, I think in
Wheeling, yeah, Wheeling.”

“That’s West Virginia, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Have you ever been north of New Philadelphia?”

“Where’s north?”

Maharos glanced at Fiala who was slowly shaking
his head.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Where were you born?”

“Kentucky.”

“Where in Kentucky?”

“Doylesville. Small town outside Lexington.”

“When was the last time you had a job?”

Young looked at Robinson. “Do I have to answer
all these chickenshit questions?”

The lawyer said, “Only if you want to.”

Maharos decided he was wasting his time. “Look,
Young, the sheriff told me they picked you up on suspicion of murder…”

Young, for the first time came out of his sullen
stance. He leaned forward placing his palms on the table. His eyes blazed. “You
tell the sheriff he’s full a shit! I didn’t kill nobody.”

Maharos went on quietly, “He told me they found
the wallet belonging to the murdered man in your possession.”

Young sat back. “Okay, I took the guy’s wallet.
He’s layin’ in the back of the truck, right? I thought he was drunk and figured
to roll him. I grabbed the wallet and ran. I swear, I didn’t know the guy was
dead until the deputy picked me up and brought me here. I thought he was
pullin’ me in for vagrancy. I figured I’d get a few meals off the county. I
shoulda taken the fifteen fuckin’ bucks and thrown the fuckin’ wallet and the
credit cards away. I never killed nobody.”

Maharos had questioned enough people in his
fifteen years as a police officer. He knew when someone was lying. Young was a
bum, a drunk, a vagrant, probably a petty thief. He may have killed someone
before in a drunken brawl, but he was telling the truth now. He turned to
Fiala. “Want to ask anything more, Frank?”

Fiala said, “Done any time, Roy?”

Young shrugged, “A little. County joints. No hard
time.”