Or, the most certain of all to fail, the killer laid false trails that would be sure to lead the police to someone else, but that, in the end, always led to him.
The killer, aware of danger, planned a crime so intricate and complicated, it was all but inevitable he would be caught.
He, Castro, would not do that.
What a killer could devise, the police could detect. What one man could hide, another man could find. Max Castro would hide nothing.
The answer was simplicity. Exactly like the clean, simple lines of a modern building. A simple line for a building, a simple plan for a murder. An obvious murder. A murder that pointed straight to only one murderer. Himself.
Because it isn’t enough for the police to know that a man committed murder. They have to prove it. Not that he had wanted to commit murder, but that he had committed murder.
He, Castro, would be the logical suspect. He would have no alibi. Definitely no alibi.
The stupid, iron-clad alibi. Stupid, because no alibi could be iron-clad since it was, in fact, an alibi, and not the truth. It was a lie, something that had not happened. The smallest unexpected accident, and the alibi was broken. And once broken, the alibi itself, the carefully constructed lie, became the most damning evidence against the killer.
No, when Norman Roth was dead, the police would come straight to him, Castro. He would say, “Yes, officer, I often thought of killing him myself. I’m glad he’s dead. As a matter of fact, I was very near where he was killed at just the time it happened. It’s my normal routine to walk past there at that time. I certainly could have killed him, but I didn’t. Can you prove that I did?”
Finally, he would not confess. That last and most fatal flaw in any killer’s plan. The weakness of guilt that made a man break down under pressure.
Castro would feel no guilt at all. Not for killing one thieving son-of-bitch young stud.
He would not break under questioning.
He was a man of position and wealth.
He could protect himself.
And he would not be forced to confess to save an innocent person. He would be the only real suspect. Susan would have an alibi, a real alibi, and the scene would be completely deserted.
Castro, thought, planned...
In Castro’s mind I felt his excitement as his plan took its find, utterly simple shape. The last little thought — the old criminal adage: If you are innocent, always take a judge done for your trial. If you are guilty, take a jury. A carefully selected jury, a reasonable doubt, no proof, and a good lawyer.
Captain Pearce chewed on his lip. “So he just walked up to Roth as bold as you please?”
“It has to be,” I said. “I’ve studied his actions, put myself into his mind. There’s no other answer.”
Lieutenant Schatz swore in the smoky office. “No fingerprints, no usable footprints, no bloodstains, no hair or skin under the fingernails, nothing dropped, no physical evidence at all. A thousand other bricks just like the murder weapon all over that building site. Castro walked past the place at that time every Monday, Thursday, and Friday for months.”
“All part of his plan,” I said. “Those were the days Susan Roth had her alibi. Thursday, the day it happened, was her usual Junior League meeting.”
Pearce shook his head. “And Castro planned it all, Dan?”
“Every detail,” I said. “As simple as he could make it. Just walked onto that deserted building site and straight up to Norman Roth inside the shell of the unfinished building where no one could see them together.”
The perfect place — I heard Castro thinking it. I walked with Castro past the building site of Roth’s new job. He couldn’t have selected a better site if he had gone to Roth and told the bastard just what he needed for a simple murder. And Roth, good at his work, made a point of visiting his various building sites after the day’s work was finished. As Castro knew he did. After all, it was Castro who had taught the younger man always to do just that. You never knew what would pay off in the end.
He watched and waited. The building site was in a downtown business area deserted after six o’clock. It was hidden from view on three sides. The foundation was already in, the walls just rising.
He began to walk from his office to his own site by way of Roth’s building. He bought a newspaper at the same stand each day. People would remember him, yet would not really notice him.
Who really notices a plainly dressed man on a city street in the evening twilight day after day? Who actually remembers the precise time they saw the man if he strolls often along that same city street? They would remember that he walked that way regularly, but would forget the exact day or time when they had last seen him. Was it Wednesday or Thursday? Perhaps Friday?
He chose a drugstore not far from Roth’s building site and stopped there regularly for a soda. The same each time, and talked to the boy behind the counter.
“You make a very good cherry soda, son.”
The boy grinned. “Thank you, sir.”
“Castro,” he smiled. “Max Castro. You look like a smart kid. Too smart to be working behind a soda fountain. You should better yourself. Ever consider architecture?”
“Yessir, I sure have!” the boy said eagerly. “Architecture’s what I want to study in college when I get enough money.”
Every murderer needs a little luck.
“Good,” he said. “It happens to be my profession. I’m on my way to one of my buildings now. An ex-partner of mine, Norman Roth, has a building going up only a few blocks away. I stop there too, to see how I’d do it better.”
He laughed at his own joke, hinted some help might be arranged for the boy, and tipped too much.
“Thank you, sir!”
He made small purchases, browsed among the paperback books and magazines. The browsing was so that the owner of the store would also remember him, and the small purchases did two things. First, they involved him more in the store, increased the chance of being recalled as a regular by customers. Second, they helped his innocent appearance. Who buys a bottle of aspirin or a tube of toothpaste on his way to commit murder?
He talked to the boy about Norman Roth. “You go and look at Roth’s building, son. Three blocks straight up on this side of the street. His name is on the sign. He’s not much of an architect, but he’s a publicity whiz.”
He talked a lot about Norman Roth. That would look good. Why would a man who planned to kill talk so much about his intended victim to a stranger who would be sure to remember?
He even brought the boy some books. “Read them, they’ll help you with the mathematics, help you understand architects and architecture, feel the pull.”
“I was always real good at math,” the boy said.
“That’ll help a lot,” he encouraged.
At the actual building site he stopped whenever Roth himself was there. The workmen and Roth’s associates noticed him. He made sure they saw him and Roth together, talking.
“Go away, Castro,” Roth said. “Anything you have to say to me you can say in court.”
“I like to study your cheap work.” Castro smiled.
“Stay away from me, you hear? You can’t hurt me. You’re a loser, Castro. Work and women.”
“I walk where I please,” Castro said, but inside his teeth clenched, and he could barely hold himself from attacking Roth then and there in front of everyone.
He continued his routine, made sure he passed the site just at twilight. Sometimes Roth was there, sometimes he wasn’t. Usually he had to wait for Roth to drive up from one of his other sites. Roth wasn’t always alone. But most of the time he was.