As he followed Harry McElroy, crossing over Old York Road and onto Hunting Park Avenue, then onto Ninth Street, he tried to be philosophical about it. There was no sense moaning over something he couldn’t control.
The street in front of Officer Kellog’s home was now crowded with police vehicles of all descriptions, and Mike was not surprised to see Mickey O’Hara’s antenna-festooned Buick among them.
“I don’t have to tell you what to do,” Chief Lowenstein said as he got out of the car. “Call me after the Milham interview.”
“Yes, sir,” Mike said, and walked toward the District cop standing at the door of the row house.
The cop looked uncomfortable. He recognized the unmarked Plymouth as a police vehicle, and was wise enough in the ways of the Department to know that a nearly new unmarked car was almost certain to have been assigned to a senior white-shirt, but this rumpled little man was a stranger to him.
“I’m Staff Inspector Weisbach. I know your orders are to keep everybody out, but Chief Lowenstein wants me to go in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Captain Henry Quaire and Lieutenant Lou Natali were in the kitchen, trying to stand out of the way of the crew of laboratory technicians.
They don’t have any more business here than I do. You don’t get to be a Homicide detective unless you know just about everything there is to know about working a crime scene. Homicide detectives don’t need to be supervised.
“Good morning, Henry, Lou.”
“Hello, Mike,” Quaire replied. His face registered his surprise, and a moment later his annoyance, at seeing Weisbach.
“Inspector,” Natali said.
Weisbach looked at the body and the pool of blood and quickly turned away. He was beyond the point of becoming nauseous at the sight of a violated body, but it was very unpleasant for him. His brief glance would stay a painfully clear memory for a long time.
“Shot twice, it looks, at close range,” Quaire offered.
“I don’t suppose you know who did it?” a voice behind Mike asked.
Mike turned to face Mr. Michael J. O’Hara of the Bulletin.
“Not yet, Mickey,” Quaire said. “The uniform was told to keep people out of here.”
“I have friends in high places, Henry,” O’Hara said. “Not only do I know Staff Inspector Weisbach here well enough to ask him what the hell he’s doing here, but I know the legendary Chief Lowenstein himself. Lowenstein told the uniform to let me in, Henry. He wouldn’t have, otherwise.”
“He’s out there?” Quaire asked.
O’Hara nodded.
“Talking to Captain Talley.”
“I want to talk to Talley too,” Quaire said, and walked toward the front door.
“So what are you doing here, Mike?” O’Hara asked.
“‘Observing,’” Weisbach said. He saw the displeased reaction on Lieutenant Lou Natali’s face.
“Is that between you and me, or for public consumption?” O’Hara asked.
“Spell my name right, please.”
“‘Observing’? Or ‘supervising’?”
“Observing.”
“Exactly what does that mean?”
“Why don’t you ask Chief Lowenstein? I’m not sure, myself.”
“OK. I get the picture. But-this is for both of you, off the record, if you want-do you have any idea who shot Kellog?”
“No,” Natali said quickly.
“I just got here, Mike.”
“Is there anything to the story that the Widow Kellog is-how do I phrase this delicately?- personally involved with Wally Milham?”
“I don’t know how to answer that delicately,” Natali said.
“Mike?”
“I heard that gossip for the first time about fifteen minutes ago,” Weisbach said. “I don’t know if it’s true or not.”
His eye fell on something in the open cabinet behind Natali’s head.
“What’s that?” he asked, and pushed by Natali for a closer look.
“It’s a tape recorder. With a gadget that turns it on whenever the phone is used,” Weisbach said. “Has that been dusted for prints, Lou?”
“Yes, sir.”
Weisbach pulled the recorder out of the cabinet and saw that there was no cassette inside.
“Anything on the tape?” he asked.
“There was no tape in it when D’Amata found it,” Natali said. “And no tape anywhere around it. There was an empty box for tapes, but no tapes.”
“That’s strange,” Weisbach thought out loud. “The thing is turned on.” He held it up to show the red On light. “Did the lab guys turn it on?”
“D’Amata said you can’t turn it off, it’s wired to the light socket.”
“Strange,” Weisbach said.
“Yeah,” Mickey O’Hara agreed. “Very strange.”
A uniformed officer came into the kitchen.
“Lieutenant, the Captain said that Detective Milham is on his way to the Roundhouse.”
“Thank you,” Natali said.
“I want to sit in on the interview,” Weisbach said.
“You’re going to question Milham?” Mickey O’Hara asked.
“Yes, sir,” Natali said, not quite succeeding in concealing his displeasure.
“Routinely, Mick,” Weisbach said. “If there’s anything, I’ll call you. All right?”
O’Hara thought that over for a second.
“You have an honest face, Mike, and I am a trusting soul. OK. And in the meantime, I will write that at this point the police have no idea who shot Kellog.”
“We don’t,” Weisbach said.
THREE
Detective Wallace J. Milham, a dapper thirty-five-year-old, who was five feet eleven inches tall, weighed 160 pounds, and adorned his upper lip with a carefully manicured pencil-line mustache, reached over the waist-high wooden barrier to the Homicide Unit’s office and tripped the lock of the door with his fingers.
He turned to the left and walked toward the office of Captain Henry C. Quaire, the Homicide commander. When he had come out of the First Philadelphia Building, Police Radio had been calling him. When he answered the call, the message had been to see Captain Quaire as soon as possible.
Quaire wasn’t in his office. But Lieutenant Louis Natali was, and when he saw Milham, waved at him to come in.
Milham regarded Natali, one of five lieutenants assigned to Homicide, as the one closest to Captain Quaire, and in effect, if not officially, his deputy. He liked him.
“I got the word the Captain wanted to see me,” Milham said as he pushed open the door.
“Where were you, Wally? We’ve been looking for you for an hour.”
“At the insurance bureau in the First Philadelphia Building,” Milham replied, then when he sensed Natali wanted more information, went on: “On the Grover job.”
A week before, Mrs. Katherine Grover had hysterically reported to Police Radio that there had been a terrible accident at her home in Mt. Airy. When a radio patrol car of the Fourteenth District had responded, Officer John Sarabello had found Mr. Arthur Grover, her husband, dead against the wall of their garage. Mrs. Grover told Officer Sarabello that her foot had slipped off the brake onto the accelerator, causing their Plymouth station wagon to jump forward.
Neither Officer Sarabello, his sergeant, or the Northwest Detective Division detective who further investigated the incident were completely satisfied with Mrs. Grover’s explanation of what had transpired, and the job was referred to the Homicide Unit. Detective Milham got the job, as he was next up on the wheel.
“I know she did it,” Detective Milham went on. “And she knows I know she did it. But she is one tough little cookie.”
“The insurance turn up anything?”
“Nothing here in the last eighteen months. They’re going to check Hartford for me.”
While it might be argued that the interest of the insurance industry in a homicide involving someone whose life they have insured may be more financial than moral-if it turned out, for example, that Mrs. Grover had feloniously taken the life of her husband, they would be relieved of paying her off as the beneficiary of his life insurance policy-the industry for whatever reasons cooperates wholeheartedly with police conducting a homicide investigation.