Madman's Thirst (19 page)

“It’s an acronym for Long Range
Reconnaissance Patrols, LRRPs, pronounced ‘lurps.’ Guys who would go behind
enemy lines for weeks at a time, live off the land, track the enemy’s
movements.”

And ambush and assassinate when
necessary, Scarne thought to himself. Tough, resourceful men. Good contract
killer material.

Daisy opened the freezer and
pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon.

“Ever had this ice cold, straight
up? Whitey used to give me a nightcap every now and then. It’s early, but I’m
just off work. Kind of wound up. She opened a cabinet and pulled out rocks
glasses. “How about it?”

“Sure. What’s your last name, by
the way? I’m Jake Scarne.”

“Same as on your license. How
nice.” She poured two strong tots of bourbon, which flowed viscously into the
glasses. They clinked glasses. “I’m Daisy Buchanan.” She noticed the look on
his face. “Hey. It’s my real name. Or rather the last name is. The ‘Daisy’ is a
nickname. I was born Dorothy in Gatsby, Kansas. You can figure out the rest. I
still haven’t read the book. Is it any good?

“You’d like it,” Scarne said,
laughing. He took a sip of the almost-frozen bourbon. It was delicious. Almost
like a cordial, but with a kick. “Listen, I’m going to check out the bedroom.”

“Don’t make a mess. I’m going to
rest my tootsies and sip this.” She walked into the living room, kicked off her
shoes, sat in a swivel chair at a large roll top desk and idly started looking
at some scattered papers. Scarne was saving the desk for last, although he knew
it was probably a waste of time.

There was nothing incriminating in
bedroom; no sniper rifle broken down in an attaché case under the bed. Scarne
had just finished looking through a closet and a chest of drawers when Daisy
appeared in the doorway. She leaned against the wall, crossing her long legs,
holding her drink in one hand and a newspaper clipping in the other.

“That murdered girl live on Staten
Island?”

He walked over to her and took the
clipping.

“It was in the roll top desk,” she
explained.

The article, obviously a follow-up
to previous story, had appeared in the New York Post, on Page 3, under the
headline: ‘Police Say Slain S.I. Schoolgirl Was Raped.’ Scarne began reading:

“The 16-year-old St. Peter’s
Girls High honor student found brutally murdered last week in a sedate Randall
Manor neighborhood on Staten Island was also raped.

According to police Elizabeth
Pearsall was sexually assaulted and then manually strangled shortly after
walking home from school. Her body was discovered by the family cleaning lady,
who arrived apparently moments after the killing. Police theorized that the
victim walked in on a burglary in progress. They noted that various household
items, including jewelry and silverware, were piled up in pillow cases near a
side door.

“The burglar, or burglars, may
have panicked and left the valuables behind,” said Daniel O’Connor, the Staten
Island District Attorney. 

The crime shocked the
close-knit neighborhood, and garnered significant media attention because the
murdered girl was the daughter of Robert Pearsall, the city editor of the
Richmond Register, Staten Island’s community newspaper. Pearsall, who won a
Pulitzer Prize for his investigation into nursing home abuses on Staten Island
and across the nation, lost his wife two years ago and was devastated by the
murder of his only child. He reportedly collapsed at the newspaper when he got
the news.

District Attorney O’Connor, who
pointed out that burglaries and violent crime were rare in his borough, said
his office was devoting all its resources to solving what he called ‘one of the
most heinous crimes in our memory.’”

Banaszak had not only clipped the
article about the murder, but also had underlined, in red, the part about the
rape.

“Is Whitey your guy?”

“Looks like it.”

“Damn. Never would have figured
him for something like that.” She shuddered and finished off her drink. “I
guess I’ve had a close call. Christ, I’m pretty good at sizing up people,
especially men. He was so nice to me.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, he’s a
pro, and probably wouldn’t harm a fly in his ‘civilian’ life. And he apparently
didn’t have much to do with what happened to the girl. In fact, he probably
regrets it, which is why I’m trying to find him. I’m after the people who
ordered the murder, not him. Any ideas where he might be? Family? Friends?”

Daisy Buchanan shook her head.

“He never mentioned anyone.
There’s no other photos around. Never saw anyone visit him. I used to kid him
that he must be in the witness protection program. He thought that was
hysterical. Now I know why. He’s probably the reason some people are in the
program.”

They walked back to the kitchen,
and she poured them both another drink. She hopped up on the counter to sit and
Scarne stood across from her.

“If you find him alive, what are
you going to do? Call the cops?”

“Ask him some questions first.”

“And if he won’t answer?”

“He’ll answer.”

She looked at him appraisingly.

“And you’re drinking the man’s
bourbon. What about the people you said ordered the girl killed?”

“Cross that bridge when I come to
it.”

“Raping and strangling a kid like
that. Someone did that to one of my sisters, I’d kill them.”

“People who planned it weren’t
counting on the rape. It was business.”

“That makes it worse, don’t you
think?”

Scarne nodded. She leaned forward
to clink her glass with his. Her smell, sensual and tinged with whatever she
had done the past night, wafted over him. It was magnified by the bourbon. She
noticed the subtle change in his posture, and laughing softly, brought the
glass to her lips.

“I like you, Jake. We talk easy.
And you haven’t asked what a nice girl like me is doing hooking.”

“We don’t know each other well
enough to start unburdening our souls, Daisy. Besides, if a hit man likes you,
that’s good enough for me.”

She laughed and then leaned over
and kissed him lightly on the lips. She leaned against him, her hand on his
chest and looked up.

“Something tells me we might eventually
get to know each other,” she said. “But right now I’m beat. I’m gonna sleep for
a week. Got at least a $3,000 head start on the weekend, so I’m on vacation, as
of now. When you finish in here, just drop the keys in the umbrella stand
outside my door. I’ll  clean the place up later. Got a card in case I have to
reach you?”

Scarne took out his wallet and
gave her one. She took it and walked out to the roll top desk where she had
left her pocketbook and put the card inside, pulling out one of her own. It was
gold embossed, with just her name, cell phone number and email.

“Simple, but elegant,” he said,
sliding it into his wallet.

“Just like me,” she said. “Except
for the simple part.” With that, Daisy Buchanan from Kansas said “toodles” and
walked out the door.

Scarne spent much of the afternoon
searching the apartment, and then took on the nooks and crannies of the roll
top desk, which were stuffed with old mail, bills, a Zagat’s restaurant guide,
a subway map, seating charts for various local sports stadiums, playbills from
Broadway shows, delivery menus from local ethnic restaurants, pens, pencils, a
stapler, scotch tape and just about everything else one would expect in a New
Yorker’s desk.

The last drawer he opened
contained tightly cramped hanging files, each full of thick folders. It
appeared that Banaszak didn’t throw much paperwork out. Since the drawer had
not been locked, and other than the newspaper clipping Scarne hadn’t come
across anything remotely tied to the Pearsall case, he was pretty sure that he
wouldn’t find anything incriminating in the folders. But he knew he’d have to
read every piece of paper in them.

Banaszak was a disciplined man.
All the folders were neatly labeled alphabetically: ‘Automobile’ to ‘Zoo.’
Could there be a clue in Zoo? Was there an animal connection? He was tempted to
pull that folder out and work his way backwards but it was easier to flip
through the folders from the beginning, and start at ‘Automobile.’

There was nothing remotely
incriminating or instructive until he hit the folder labeled ‘Veterans
Administration,’ which Scarne noted sourly, was just before “Zoo.” In it were
copies of various official forms related to Banaszak’s military experience,
including his DD214 discharge papers from the Army, and applications for
medical and other benefits due him. Of particular interest were some brochures
from the V.A. listing the hospice services available to qualified veterans. The
preamble to one brochure stated that the V.A. was committed “to providing a
peaceful journey to America’s veterans in their last days, to fulfill Abraham
Lincoln’s Civil War pledge ‘to care for him who shall have borne the battle.’”
Scarne opened the brochure and found a passage that Banaszak had highlighted:

“The V.A. is committed to the
provision of compassionate and humane care to the terminally ill veteran and
veteran's family.  Hospice and palliative care are now included in the Medical
Benefits Package for eligible enrolled veterans. Hospice and palliative care
optimize the comfort and dignity of the patient through the effective
management of pain and other symptoms. All medical centers assure that hospice
care is made available to all enrolled veterans who need and select this type
of care.”

 Scarne, who himself had been in
the V.A. system as a result of wounds, was surprised at the extent of the
hospice and palliative care detailed in the brochures. He thought it likely
that the dying Banaszak was now in one of the V.A.’s hospice units. But which
one? They were undoubtedly spread across the nation, although Banaszak would probably
choose one close by. He looked through the file, hoping to find a letter of
acceptance or referral, but there wasn’t any. Banaszak might have taken it with
him.

He called Evelyn.

“Find out how many V.A. hospitals
offer hospice care. It’s probably on a Government website. Then call them and
see if they are treating a Wit Banaszak. I could kick myself I didn’t think
about hospice care when you mentioned  the V.A. the other day. I may have to
check myself in for observation, or lack of it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.
You got to him pretty quickly anyway.”

“In his condition, pretty quickly
may be too late.”

Scarne gave her Banaszak’s service
number, just in case Meryl Streep needed some help. He then went through the last
folder. It turned out that Banaszak was life patron at the Bronx Zoo and had donated
$1,000 to have a brick with his name placed on the path leading up to a
soon-to-be-built nursery for the babies of endangered primates. Baby gorillas
and
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers
. I have to meet this guy, he
thought.

He didn’t feel right leaving too
much work for Daisy, so he spent almost an hour repairing most of the disarray
from his apartment search, then cleaned himself up in the kitchen, where he
also had another bourbon, which reminded his stomach that he had skipped lunch.
He called Evelyn and told her to order in some dinner for the both of them.
Then he locked the apartment door and walked down the hall to Daisy Buchanan’s
apartment. He could hear soft music through her door but no other sounds. She
was presumably asleep. He dropped Banaszak’s key in the umbrella stand and took
the stairs down. He headed left down the block toward Amsterdam Avenue to hail
a cab.

Scarne never noticed the tall man
dressed in a black suit and turtleneck who turned the corner at Columbus and
walked up to Banaszak’s building.     

CHAPTER 22 – THE WORM POOL

By the time Scarne got back to his
office Evelyn had printed out a list of all the Veterans Administration facilities
in the nation. It was six pages long.

“It’s quite a system. There are 20
Veterans Service Networks, spread out by region. In each network there are
hundreds of hospitals, vet centers, community based outpatient clinics and the
like.”

“I’ll be the one who’s dead by the
time we find him.”

“It’s not that bad. Assuming Banaszak
is in hospice care, the facility is probably in a hospital. We can eliminate 90
percent of these facilities. Let’s just call the hospitals, starting in the
tri-state area. If that doesn’t work, given the time zones, we’ll do the East Coast
and head west.”

They worked steadily for two
hours, stopping only to eat some heavily sprouted whole grain sandwiches and
drink “organic” coffee from a local health food store. Scarne was so hungry the
sandwiches actually tasted good to him. The coffee tasted like coffee.

Some hospitals didn’t offer
hospice care and were quickly stricken from the list. At the others they simply
asked to speak to Wit Banaszak. Evelyn was calling the hospitals in the appropriately
named VA Sunshine Network in Florida when an operator tried to connect her to
Banaszak. She quickly hung up with an apology to the operator about an incoming
call.

“The bastard is still alive,” she
said in triumph. “And he’s in the bloody Veterans Hospital in Tampa.”

Scarne wanted to catch the 9:30 PM flight from JFK
to Tampa.

“What good will that do, Jake? You’ll get in after
midnight, even if it’s on time, which it won’t be. They won’t let you see him.”

“He’s dying in hospice, Evelyn. I’m so close.”

“You need a good night’s sleep. You show up
looking like you do they’ll think you’re a patient.”

She was right, of course, as usual.

***

Feeling vaguely human and fortified by two
blessedly sproutless Egg McMuffins and a large black coffee, Scarne was on the
first nonstop the next morning, a Jet Blue Airbus 300 out of Newark. It was
just 11 AM when his rental Ford Fusion pulled into the hospital parking lot of James
A. Haley VA Medical Center on Coombs Blvd. in Tampa.