A Murder of Krow's

My father was a locksmith. Whether it was combination or key, he could prize its secrets with a deft wrist and keen ear. When I was a child, I admired the single-mindedness with which he would attack a troublesome safe or the newest, most-secure, indestructible, padlock. When I turned ten, he gave me my first set of picks and a stethoscope. Every day after school he would sit me down and watch me practice over and over picking the myriad locks in his possession. After locks, I graduated to safes, until I could feel the slightest tick of a carefully spun cylinder.  For my father, it was the draw of mystery, the puzzle he could defeat using just his hands and mind. I was more interested in what treasures people hid within.  The day my father disappeared, I came home to find his favorite safe, a riveted steel plate box, open on the kitchen table. It was the same day I volunteered for the Army.
****
With the slam of locker door 1105, I had committed my thirty-seventh crime. Within the locker was an aluminum tube. Within that tube was “Landscape with the fall of Icarus”, attributed to Pieter Bruegel, purloined during a brief engagement at the Brooklyn Museum. Three days from now, across the train station, in locker number 318, a hundred and seventy thousand dollars will be waiting for me. 
Three a.m. I left the subway two blocks from my apartment. The January night was clear and frozen. There was no one on the street save for a sleek 50’s Mercury, black as coal. The breeze tossed ragged pieces of newspaper into the gutter.  I pulled my collar up and buried my hands deep in my pockets.
My apartment, like all apartments in this area, was brownstone, indistinguishable from the rest save for number and personal attachment; and tonight, flashes of red. There were three black and whites parked in front of my building and a group of cops and reporters milling about the alley. Chills cut into my spine like icy scalpels, but I reminded myself:
They would have come at the train station, and they wouldn’t have their lights on if they were waiting for you.
I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves and walked over to the alley. The big cop with a punched-in nose put his hand out for me to stop.
What’s going on officer?
Nothing, go on about your business.
I live here, flatfoot. You mind telling me why you’re on my doorstep.
Gotta body in the alley, now shove off.
Who is it? Maybe I know them.
The cop sighed and called out for Detective Charles. He was a short man with a head of hair like an un-groomed poodle. He couldn’t seem to stop wiping his fingers on his jacket.
         What is it, Kennedy?
         This man lives here, might know the body.
         Thank you, Kennedy. Are you sure you want to see, sir?
         Yes.
         The body in the alley was Stephanie Wallace. She lived across the hall from me. Stephanie had been the spitting image of Jan Sterling. Though now she looked more like a porcelain doll crushed beneath a jackboot. The one thing I remembered about Stephanie was her clothes, always clean and well kept. Tonight was no exception, except for the blood and the white scratches on the black tops of her shoes. Detective Charles was saying she had jumped, that there was a note in her pocket, typed out and hand signed. I left and climbed the stairs to my apartment.
         At four a.m. there was a knock at the door, followed by a loud pounding. I stomped to the door in my woolen underwear, my breath made whorls in the air. The screws on the safety chain strained as I wrenched the door open to its limit. The sour face behind the door I haven’t seen in years, nor one I ever expected to see again.
         Karen.
         Tom. You gunna invite me in?
I gave her a long hard look. Her showing up tonight made the evening an odd trifecta. 
         What do you want?
Her tiny ferret face was framed by a large fat head. It made me think of an abstract painting, a single dot of black on a white field. She whispered through the space between door and jamb.
         It’s about Stephanie, open the fucking door.
I removed the chain. She pushed past me, an unstoppable wave of woman in a black woolen trench and a crew cut of copper hair. She flumped down on my sofa.
         This is a shit hole you live in. What are you doing for a living now? Writing poetry?
My apartment was small, cold, and had large white spots on the wall where the textured flower wall paper had been torn off. But it was cheap and the landlord didn’t ask any questions.
         Yeah, that’s it, I write poetry. Now what the fuck do you want?
         I need your help.
         With what?
         Stephanie.
         Yeah, she’s dead, so? You want me to resurrect her?
         For a moment I thought she was going to launch her bulk off the couch and flatten my face into strawberry jam. Instead she seemed to diminish; small, and frightened. There were tears in her eyes when she looked up at me. 
         You still go by the name, Tom?
         You still go by Karen?
Stephanie didn’t kill herself.
How do you know?
I was the one who found her in the alley. The note she had in her pocket was typed.
So?
She never typed. She always hand wrote. I have countless letters from her all hand written. She never said she was unhappy.
Maybe she didn’t tell you everything.
She talked about you. How you would always smile at her, but never got the nerve to ask her on a date.
Yeah well I got better things to do than that. Why didn’t you go to the cops?
They won’t listen. I would do it myself except I am on the job. Remember Yonan? Remember General Paik?
Yeah I remember him.
Remember how he died? Someone has made Stephanie’s death look like a suicide.

Karen was wrong about me and Stephanie. Yeah I smiled at her. But if you ask me you’re more likely to be forgotten with a smile than a scowl. The last thing I needed was some dizzy broad messing around in my business. I tried my hardest to say no to Karen, but after she threw herself around my apartment and threatened my life with a .44 magnum, I agreed to look into it. I promised if someone did kill Stephanie, I would make sure they were caught. The last thing I needed was some crazy broad giving me the hard goodbye. She gave me the name of a man whom Stephanie went to university with, a beat by the name Arthur Kwimp. Karen said she wanted whoever did this dead. I told her that if I found anything I was going to the police. Her, the brute with a hand cannon, and me, shivering in my thread bear underwear, stared at one another across my apartment. She jerked her head in an abrupt nod and stormed out the door. I passed out on the couch.

         The next afternoon I paid a visit to Colombia University. Kwimp was a resident there. I asked a couple of watery-eyed open-mouthed kids dressed all in black if they knew him. Turned out Kwimp was also a bit of a celebrity. He read poetry in front of The Thinker every day at four p.m. I had some time to kill so I found a pub.
         The inside of The Marlin Spike was an acrid mix of cigarettes, sweat, and coffee. It was an attempt at a sailors bar in the middle of a university. There were pieces of salty gill-net hanging on the wall interspersed with sea green glass floats and bone-pale dried up old star fish.  The bartender wore a black beret and blank look.
         Rye, neat
         What?
         Rye, neat
He poured me a large glug of whiskey, slid it down the bar, and returned to his blank stare.  I took a booth by the back.
A man in matching hat and trench came through the doors, and sat down next to me. He took off his hat and placed it on the table. He looked like a hundred other guys I saw today: Joe average and smiling.
Good day, Mr. Krow. I have four things to tell you and then I will leave. The first thing I want to tell you is my name. I am Mr. Whitefish.
I went to speak but he put his finger up and said:
Uh- uh, just listen. The reason I know your name is that I too worked for the CIA. The third thing I would like to say is I know what you have hidden in locker 1105 and what awaits you in locker 318. If you don’t want the police to find out, you would do well to listen to the fourth thing I have to tell you.
Again, I tried to speak but he pushed his fingers into my lips and pulled his coat aside. I could smell nicotine.  He had a black Saturday night special under his arm.
The last thing I want you to know is I am aware of your contact with Karen. I know that she wouldn’t contact you unless she needed something. Whatever she has asked you to do, make sure it is done before your pickup at the train station two days from now. If you do this; all ends well. Oh yes, one more thing. I know I said I wouldn’t go to the police until this Saturday and I won’t. Unfortunately, some pictures of you outside the Brooklyn Museum have made their way in to the hands of a Detective Charles. Not enough for a conviction, but enough for suspicion. This will be cleared up if you adhere to my fourth point. Well, good luck.
With that, Mr. Whitefish got up and left.

         I sat and ruminated over what Whitefish had said. I had never seen him before, but he clearly knew Karen and me. As it got closer to four I took my leave of the Marlin spike and walked over to the Thinker.
         The Thinker sat in front of a red brick philosophy hall. The beats come in dibs and drabs until there are about fifty of them sitting in the grass staring at the statue. Suddenly, a man with thick coke bottle glasses and a cape appeared beneath the statue. Everyone fell silent.
         I am Arthur and poetry is dead. Here is my death gasp.
Arthur threw his hands out wide, crowed like a rooster, and then let out a gurgling sigh.
         The end
The crowd went wild snapping their fingers. I found the whole business creepy, unsettling. As quickly as he appeared, Arthur left from the gathering. I had to run to catch up.
         Arthur? Arthur wait up.
He didn’t turn. Instead walked faster down the cobblestone path. I yelled his name a few more times and still he didn’t stop. But when I yelled Stephanie’s name, he stopped dead in his tracks, wrapped his cape around himself, and turned to face me.
         Who are you?
         The name’s Krow. You know what happened to Stephanie?
         I saw in the paper today, she jumped off the roof of her building.
He seemed genuinely upset. Tears were welling up in the charcoal sacks under his eyes.
         How did you know her, Kwimp?
         We, we were just friends. We shared a love for poetry.
         Your performance today, that was for her?
         Yes.
         Where were you last night?
         I was here reciting poetry. 
         To the same crowd that was here today?
         Mostly. Why what is this about?
         How did you two meet?
I told you, we share, shared a love for poetry. We met at The Thinker three years ago, and have been friends ever since.
She’s a pretty girl. You ever try to get fresh with her?
What? No. Well ok, yes once. We drank a bottle of Thunderbird and I got a little too close, if you know what I mean.
No I don’t know what you mean, weirdo. Now come clean. She refused to put out and you finally got the guts to push her off the roof.
Arthur collapses at my feet and starts sobbing.
No, it’s not true. I loved her. But she told me she loved someone else. It was hard to hear, but she was such a good person and now she’s gone.
She had another lover? Who was he?
I don’t know. I never met him. But they were together for a long time. 
         
****

         With Arthur Kwimp a dead end, I decided to pay a visit to Stephanie’s apartment, hoping to find more clues about this other lover.  Her apartment was just down the hall from mine.  The hallway was quiet. I twisted the light bulb out of the wall socket, shrouding her doorway in enough shadow to make picking the lock look like a problem with my key. The pick and pry-bar slipped silently into the lock. I raked in and out until I felt the pry-bar complete the turn, and pushed my way into her apartment.
         
         The room glowed under the light of a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Silk drapes flowed like cream from the windows. The bed was covered in a matching cream duvet and pillows, all perfectly tucked in. The walls were papered in pink and blue argyle. Every available space was cluttered with black and whites of Stephanie, and what I assumed were her mother, father, and sister. On the pink couch lay a spool of grey wool and a pair of knitted booties, half-finished. 

On the cherry wood vanity next to the bed I found a box of letters. Several with a Columbia University address caught my eye. They were hand-written thank you letters to Stephanie, from a man named Guy, for her and her family’s help getting him into the university. I sat on the bed and scanned the room. Nothing was out of place in the single room apartment. I checked the medicine cabinet and the water tank on the toilet, still nothing. Why would this woman have to hide anything? She was kind hearted and beautiful. She had no reason to kill herself. But who would want to kill her?

I found myself staring at a picture of her and her sister. Close enough in looks to be mistaken for twins. Stephanie’s eyes stared back at me. What would have happened if I had asked her out? I pulled open a drawer and was washed in lavender and spearmint. I closed my eyes and saw her smelling the sprig, then, smiling conspiratorially, placing the purple herb beneath her clothes. Suddenly, I was torn to the evening she died, watching as she was tossed, crying, off the roof. I ran to the bathroom and dry heaved into the toilet. 

Down the hall I heard the sharp rap of knuckles on wood. Carefully, I cracked the door open. Detective Charles was knocking on my door. God Damn Mr. Whitefish. I closed the door and leaned back. That’s when I saw it. In the corner of the room, a small rectangle of baseboard stood slightly ajar.  It came away easily in my hand. Behind was a hole just big enough for the cigar case within. I grabbed a butter knife out of the cutlery drawer and carefully prized the wooden box out of the wall. It read “Cabanas” across the top.

Jackpot, the box was filled with letters wrapped in red lace, professing undying love and devotion. Each letter becoming more and more obsessed: each one signed “M”.  At the bottom of the stack was a letter written by Stephanie with the postage, but never mailed. In it she tells M: it’s over, I never wants to see you again. I put the letters in my pocket, replaced the cigar box and floor board, and making sure the detective had left, returned to my apartment.

         For some reason, the white scuffs on Stephanie’s shoes kept popping up in my mind. Why would someone keep her apartment and personal appearance so immaculate but fail to do the same for her shoes? And, why on the tops of her shoes? I decided to go up on the roof. 


         The roof had been converted into a mock forest. Rows of cone-shaped pines, planted in large brown ceramic pots covered the space. An “S” shaped path ran from the door to the edge of the building, laid out with white stones and held in place with curving pieces of wood. Two steps along the path, the white stones left scuff marks along the sides of my shoes. I walked to the end of the path and looked down into the alley. I imagined her looking up at me, arms flailing, mouth agape, silently screaming no. Her blue ribbon, ripped free, floated down, softly as an exhale of winter breath.

         Three hours later, back in my apartment, there was a soft tapping on my door. I saw Karen through the peep-hole. I opened the door and locked it behind her.

         Have you found Stephanie’s killer yet?
         
No.
         
What have you found?
         
Nothing. Kwimp was a lame duck.
         
That’s impossible. Stephanie told me she was afraid he might do something to hurt her.
         
Yeah, well, he has a rock solid alibi.

I was sure it was him. I might have another lead for you though. I was going through some stuff in Stephanie’s apartment, just now, and I found this letter from Guy.

Karen put the letter on my couch and bent down to tie the black laces of her boot. I noticed white scuff marks. She noticed me looking and attempted to rub them off with the cuff of her coat.

You know, Karen, I was just up on the roof. There’s a path made of white stones.

Yes, I saw them earlier. I was up there myself.

Why were you on the roof?

To find clues, evidence to help your investigation.

Did you find anything?

No. Why are the stones important?

Clearly, whoever killed Stephanie dragged her across the stones face down and tossed her over the edge.

How the fuck does that get us any closer to her killer?

I don’t know, yet. Did Stephanie ever talk about her parents or any brothers or sisters?

Not often. I don’t think they were close.

You know their names?

Yeah, her father’s name was Prescott, and her mother’s name was Mary. I think.

Here, write that down for me, first and last names. I have a terrible memory.

I handed her a pencil and piece of paper. When she finished, I told her to come back tomorrow at six p.m. after I had looked them up.  When she left, I went out to the street and walked down the end of the block. I knew if Mr. Whitefish found me in the Marlin spike earlier today, he would be lurking close by. If I was going to wrap this up soon, I would need his help. 

Behind me, I heard an engine rumble to life. I took a left down 183rd and headed towards the subway. I went down the dark stairwell, through the terminal, and up the stairs on the opposite side of the street just in time to see Mr. Whitefish returning to his black Mercury. Crouching, I ran behind parked cars and garbage cans, reaching the car just as he did.

         Mr. Whitefish.
         
Mr. Krow. To what do I owe this impromptu meeting?
         
I need you to do something for me, by tomorrow. 

I handed him Karen’s note, the letter she found from Guy, and the letters from M.

         What do you expect me to do with these?
         
Analyze them. I need you to find out anything you can about the people who wrote them.

It will take some time. I might be able to have it done by tomorrow night. I will call you when it’s done.


The next day was torture. Whitefish would call when my task was finished. Until then, all I had to do was wait for Karen to show up. The clock was miserly with each minute.  With my package being delivered to the train station tomorrow, I could only hope this would be wrapped up tonight and that Whitefish had the answers I needed.

Karen knocked on my door just as my phone rang. After letting her in, I answered the phone. Mr. Whitefish. I told Karen I had to go follow up on a hot lead, and to meet me up on the roof at midnight. I had something important to show her. I pushed her out the door and ran to the subway to meet with him.

Mr. Whitefish’s package confirmed my suspicions. Back in my apartment I retrieved two essential tools from my olive army footlocker: a black jack and my Walther PPK. After spreading a brown rag on the table, I disassembled my gun, cleaned the action, re-assemble it and slid the loaded magazine in with a click. I slipped black jack and pistol into my jacket and waited.

Midnight. The air on the roof was heavy laden with the fresh smell of pine needles. I crouched down behind the ornamental trees, watching the door open.  Karen stepped out gingerly, looking left and right. The night was clouded and dark. She walked down the path to the file folder I had placed in front of me. Her face was stark white in the moonless night. She called out my name once, looked around, and then turned to the folder. Her back was facing me. I crept through the bushes behind her and jammed the business end of my PPK to the back of her skull.

Stand very still. Toss that .45 into the bushes.

Tom. What the fuck are you doing?

You killed Stephanie.

What? That’s crazy. I was her friend.

Open the folder. Inside you’ll find a report. It says the letters written to Stephanie by M, the letter you handed me last night from Guy, and the note you wrote me with Stephanie’s parent’s names on it are all written in the same hand.

Where, where did you get all this?

From a friend.

This is all a set up. Why can’t you see that?

I wouldn’t have suspected you, Karen, until I saw the white scuff marks on your shoes.

I told you, I was up on the roof looking for clues.

Then why did you lie to me about her parents. The most noticeable thing about Stephanie’s apartment, besides how clean it is, are the pictures of her family.

Karen shoulders sagged. The file folder fell from her hands.

         What are you going to do now, call the cops?

         Not exactly. Stephanie was an incredible woman. I can understand why you fell in love with her.
         Good bye Karen.

I cracked her across the back of the head with a black jack. She fell to the floor like a sack of mortar and bricks. I retrieved the folder from beneath Karen’s inert form, took out the letters placed them in her pocket. Then I dragged her along the path, wiped the smudges off the tops of her boots, and pitched her off the roof head-first. 

         I spent the last of my money on a dingy hotel room across the city near the train station. My few clothes packed into one scarred suitcase. I slept better than I had in years. When I hit the streets in the morning, a familiar black Mercury was waiting at the curb.