Split Second
Page 21
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“I spoke to Mr. Raditch two nights ago. There have been a couple of scary dreams for the kids, and one really bad one for him, he said. He and his wife are being very careful with them. My wife set them up with a child psychiatrist.”
“That is good. I will tell you, Agent Savich, I was so scared for the children when that man walked in and pointed that gun at me. Now, you will tell me, Agent Savich, why is there a guard at my door?”
“What did Detective Raven tell you, sir?”
“Nothing at all, merely that since this was the second robbery so very soon after the first, there might be some connection between the two robberies, and that concerned him. Like my wife, Detective Raven does not appear to like coincidences, either.”
Mr. Patil looked very alert now, and there was such intelligence in his dark eyes that Savich pushed ahead. “Mr. Patil, think back to that Tuesday night. Do you believe the man with the stocking over his face was really there only to rob you?”
“You are thinking perhaps that he meant to kill me? And since he failed, another came to kill me two days ago?”
Savich said, “That is why the guard is outside your door.”
“But who would want to kill me? I am an old man. I have no enemies that I am aware of. It is my wife who should be in danger, for she flays alive anyone who criticizes me or her children or her grandchildren. She is brutal. I am quite terrified of her.” Mr. Patil shook his head, and Savich saw a small smile.
Minutes later, Savich went to the fourth floor to see Thomas Wenkel, a former resident of Ossining, in for ten years for armed robbery, paroled after eight years, and released eight months ago. He was a career felon. Did that include murder?
There was a guard outside his room as well. His name was Officer Ritter. No, Savich was told, no visitors, nothing out of the ordinary. Officer Ritter looked, frankly, bored. Ben had best change out the guard.
Savich paused in the doorway. Thomas Wenkel was watching TV, his eyes glued to the small set high on the opposite wall. It was a soap opera.
“Mr. Wenkel.”
Thomas Wenkel brought his narrow, watery eyes to Savich. “You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
When Savich stuck his creds under Wenkel’s nose, he ignored them. Savich saw his long, thick fingers drum against the bedsheet. Then he turned to face Savich. “You’re the guy who shot me.”
“Yes. I could have killed you, but I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for that, you bastard. Go away.”
“Did you know Mr. Patil was shot this past Wednesday night, during another supposed robbery?”
“Stupid old fool. Did he bite the big one this time?”
“You know he didn’t, since Detective Raven doubtless came to speak to you about it.”
Wenkel shrugged, convulsively swallowed at a hit of pain in his shoulder, and concentrated on the soap opera.
“Were you going to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wenkel, when you hooked up with Elsa Heinz.”
“I don’t know no Elsa Heinz.” He shouted at the TV. “Hey, Erica, don’t cheat on your husband with that yahoo! Don’t you got no brain?”
Savich’s eyes flicked to the soap opera, then back to Mr. Wenkel. “Elsa Heinz was forty-three years old, in and out of prison for years, just like you, Mr. Wenkel. Why did she come running in to save your bacon? Were you more than criminals together? Were you lovers, Mr. Wenkel?”
Wenkel started humming. There was a commercial on TV.
“She’s dead. I had to kill her.”
Wenkel never looked away from the television. He only shrugged, but Savich would swear he saw Wenkel’s mouth tighten.
“Who hired the two of you to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
The D.A. had offered Wenkel a deal to roll, but he’d said he didn’t rat nobody out, ever.
Savich left. This was interesting indeed. Someone like Wenkel, he should have rolled. Something was wrong with that picture.
CHAPTER 14
Hoover Building
Late Friday morning
Coop said, “I gotta tell you, Savich, Inspector Delion was so excited this morning when I called San Francisco and told him the serial killer is Ted Bundy’s daughter, he nearly hyperventilated. I gave him her probable age, sent him the most recent sketch, told him we were betting she lived and attended school in the San Francisco Bay Area since that’s where the murders started. I told him we’d have a name for him soon. He’d already done some work on the first two murders committed in San Francisco, and he said a lot of people in the SFPD would be hyped with this news.
“That is good. I will tell you, Agent Savich, I was so scared for the children when that man walked in and pointed that gun at me. Now, you will tell me, Agent Savich, why is there a guard at my door?”
“What did Detective Raven tell you, sir?”
“Nothing at all, merely that since this was the second robbery so very soon after the first, there might be some connection between the two robberies, and that concerned him. Like my wife, Detective Raven does not appear to like coincidences, either.”
Mr. Patil looked very alert now, and there was such intelligence in his dark eyes that Savich pushed ahead. “Mr. Patil, think back to that Tuesday night. Do you believe the man with the stocking over his face was really there only to rob you?”
“You are thinking perhaps that he meant to kill me? And since he failed, another came to kill me two days ago?”
Savich said, “That is why the guard is outside your door.”
“But who would want to kill me? I am an old man. I have no enemies that I am aware of. It is my wife who should be in danger, for she flays alive anyone who criticizes me or her children or her grandchildren. She is brutal. I am quite terrified of her.” Mr. Patil shook his head, and Savich saw a small smile.
Minutes later, Savich went to the fourth floor to see Thomas Wenkel, a former resident of Ossining, in for ten years for armed robbery, paroled after eight years, and released eight months ago. He was a career felon. Did that include murder?
There was a guard outside his room as well. His name was Officer Ritter. No, Savich was told, no visitors, nothing out of the ordinary. Officer Ritter looked, frankly, bored. Ben had best change out the guard.
Savich paused in the doorway. Thomas Wenkel was watching TV, his eyes glued to the small set high on the opposite wall. It was a soap opera.
“Mr. Wenkel.”
Thomas Wenkel brought his narrow, watery eyes to Savich. “You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
When Savich stuck his creds under Wenkel’s nose, he ignored them. Savich saw his long, thick fingers drum against the bedsheet. Then he turned to face Savich. “You’re the guy who shot me.”
“Yes. I could have killed you, but I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for that, you bastard. Go away.”
“Did you know Mr. Patil was shot this past Wednesday night, during another supposed robbery?”
“Stupid old fool. Did he bite the big one this time?”
“You know he didn’t, since Detective Raven doubtless came to speak to you about it.”
Wenkel shrugged, convulsively swallowed at a hit of pain in his shoulder, and concentrated on the soap opera.
“Were you going to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
“Tell me, Mr. Wenkel, when you hooked up with Elsa Heinz.”
“I don’t know no Elsa Heinz.” He shouted at the TV. “Hey, Erica, don’t cheat on your husband with that yahoo! Don’t you got no brain?”
Savich’s eyes flicked to the soap opera, then back to Mr. Wenkel. “Elsa Heinz was forty-three years old, in and out of prison for years, just like you, Mr. Wenkel. Why did she come running in to save your bacon? Were you more than criminals together? Were you lovers, Mr. Wenkel?”
Wenkel started humming. There was a commercial on TV.
“She’s dead. I had to kill her.”
Wenkel never looked away from the television. He only shrugged, but Savich would swear he saw Wenkel’s mouth tighten.
“Who hired the two of you to kill Mr. Patil?”
“You ain’t my lawyer—go away.”
The D.A. had offered Wenkel a deal to roll, but he’d said he didn’t rat nobody out, ever.
Savich left. This was interesting indeed. Someone like Wenkel, he should have rolled. Something was wrong with that picture.
CHAPTER 14
Hoover Building
Late Friday morning
Coop said, “I gotta tell you, Savich, Inspector Delion was so excited this morning when I called San Francisco and told him the serial killer is Ted Bundy’s daughter, he nearly hyperventilated. I gave him her probable age, sent him the most recent sketch, told him we were betting she lived and attended school in the San Francisco Bay Area since that’s where the murders started. I told him we’d have a name for him soon. He’d already done some work on the first two murders committed in San Francisco, and he said a lot of people in the SFPD would be hyped with this news.
