Detecting Murder: An Rc Frane/Greta Rogers Mystery

By B. Robert Anderson

Lieutenant RC Frane and Sergeant Greta Rogers are challenged to review a double murderfive years old. A former police officer claims the wrong man is serving a life sentence.

While the trail is cold, it is further complicated by the strange relations between the two victims and the man convicted of the crime. As they peel away what happened, what might have happened, and what actually happened, they encounter a vast conspiracy.

An unpublished book is still in the computer of one of the victims. A touch of blackmail adds to the murkiness because the names of some important people are revealed. Just plain police work, detecting leads to a solution.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Dec 5, 2007
• ISBN: 9781465314666

B. Robert Anderson

B. Robert (Bob) Anderson has finished his sixth RC Frane/Greta Rogers mystery. “After all this time they seem like my friends. So, when a ‘cop’ is murdered it rests heavily on Frane’s shoulders.” After more than 20 years in Foodservice Distribution and another 35 years as a Management Consultant all this background led to a third career. Along the way he has written two college text books and over 600 articles ranging through all the addictions; drugs, alcohol, gambling and even parental abuse. These combined with management articles lead to tracking the facts needed to find the killer. Anderson grew up in Philadelphia and finds the city a perfect setting filled with interesting buildings, diverse neighborhoods, great restaurants and plenty of history. He lives with his wife, Joyce, who is also an author, in Linwood, New Jersey.

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Copyright © 2007 by B. Robert Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, event or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Dedication

To my wife

Joyce S. Anderson

Critic, Helper, Constant Supporter

1   

I’m a detective. That’s what I do. Look for things that are out of place. Why did he walk on the other side of the street? How come he never looks in my eyes? Think she’s afraid of me? Ask questions. All the time, ask questions. Try to get into the head of the suspect. The gun was in the victim’s hand. How did that happen? Shot in the head. Why didn’t she drop the gun? People. All the time I have to deal with people. They lie. That’s the most important thing, they lie. Can’t trust anybody. Absolutely, can’t trust anybody. Course, that doesn’t apply to GG. She’s the only one I can trust all the way.

Frane pulled his car against the curb. He didn’t want to park too close to Crater’s Pub. Bad enough to be on Columbia Avenue; no need to be more visible than necessary. Meeting with Crater was probably not the best idea in the world. But, when a former cop calls and wants to talk, it’s polite to hear what’s on his mind.

Before leaving the office, he had pulled Don Crater’s file. Served his twenty years and then opted out. Last case was a mess, but whoever was covering homicide at the time gave him a pass. Being the first one on the crime scene carries a little more responsibility than getting there an hour later. Still, when a perp pulls a life sentence for murder, it’s a heavy weight. Cops like to win, but life is a long time. That’s when Crater turned in his badge.

Timing was right, between seven and eight. The early drinkers have gone home to dinner and the late drinkers haven’t arrived yet. Neighborhoods in Philadelphia are no different from neighborhoods in every big city. And even in some small cities. After work, people like to stop for a drink before going home. Best place is the local bar where you can run into like-minded friends. The ritual is the same, the greetings are the same, and the drinks are the same. Night after night, the sameness is comfortable.

He took a seat at the bar and did his best not to breathe too deeply. The stale layer of smoke had seeped its way into every surface of the Pub. For some, it was why they came here, to wallow in the fog-like atmosphere.

Crater stood with both hands extended, leaning against the bar. Hi, chief. Thanks for coming by. Since he was the only white man in the bar it was easy to identify him.

Chief seems a little premature. Why don’t we stick with RC? If you want to get formal, Lieutenant works.

After Crater signaled to the bartender at the other end of the bar, he motioned Frane to a table in a far corner. Let’s sit. Want something to drink. On me, of course.

The big man was overflowing his apron; a bulging stomach sent a message of heavy participation in his own products. He carried a bottle of whiskey and two glasses to the table. Just in case you change your mind, he said.

How long have you had the bar? Frane asked.

Man needs something to do. I bought this place about six months after I retired. So, I been here about five years, now.

Looks like you put on a few pounds, Frane added. Must be good for you.

Yeh. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

Frane concealed his surprise. Oh, you heard I was into weight-control. My reputation must be spreading all over town.

Thing is this, Crater said. Ever since I retired, ever since that last case, I haven’t been right. You just about made Lieutenant. Do you remember the case?

Only vaguely. You caught the whistle and found the body. Who was the lead detective?

Name was Gilbert.

Was?

Yeh. That’s part of what I want to talk about. Just three months after Johnson’s trial, Gilbert bought the farm. At least, that’s the story.

Frane picked up his glass and went to the bar. Got any club soda? As the bartender poured, he looked at the drink with disdain. He hated club soda.

Let’s see if I got this straight. My memory takes a little time to kick in. Johnson takes the big hit, guilty, and gets life. Where is he now?

Not sure. Maybe Lewisburg.

Gilbert dies. You retire. What’s the problem?

Crater took a long swallow. Pulled out a cigarette. Poured another drink. Took another swallow. He struggled with the answer. I think Johnson got a bad rap.

You mean after the investigation and the trial, and now it’s five years later, you have these different thoughts?

Crater shook his head, as if trying to clear away some cobwebs. He looked pensively at his drink, and took another swallow. This just between us, Frane?

Who was the DA at the time?

Crater looked around, making sure they were not overheard. The thing is this. Most trials are assigned by the DA to one of his people. In this case, there was an ADA by the name of Harrison.

So?

The DA was very close to this case. He kept butting in, keeping track of every move. Philly is a big city. I don’t know how many murders a year. So, what was so important about this case that he watched it so close?

Tell me more about the case. I’m still trying to see what you’re talking about.

Crater poured another drink. I’m alone in my car. Call comes through that there’s a disturbance at 21st and Spruce. Even then, this is a pretty nice block. Three story houses redone. Some new ones. Gates. A real good block. No answer when I ring the bell. Neighbor sees me, comes across the street and says she heard a noise, like a gun shot. Turns out she’s the one called 911. I pound on the door and what do you know, it’s open.

Don’t tell me you went in, said Frane.

Downing his drink, Crater continued. Made a lot of noise, called out, you know, ‘Police. Anybody here?’ Eased in and found the living room right away. And a body.

Let me guess. Bullet wound to the head.

Too easy. Single knife wound to the heart. Blood all over the place.

2   

Frane reached for the bottle and poured just a few drops in his glass. Makes the club soda taste better. Kills the after taste. Fact is, it helps with the before taste too.

Crater nodded agreement as he downed another swallow.

Didn’t you say the woman from across the street said she heard a noise?

I’m coming to that. After I feel his pulse, made sure he was dead, I called in for back-up. Then I headed upstairs. Had my piece out and called ahead. There was no answer so I proceeded to search every room. In the front bedroom, there was another body. This one with a hole in the head.

So you figured murder and suicide?

Sure. Had to be the guy in the bedroom. Hard to commit suicide with a knife to the heart.

Was that your call, or did Gilbert agree?

Gets a little confusing. I said the guy in the living room was stabbed. But, I don’t know when I knew this. When I got there, or afterward, when Gilbert and the troops arrived.

Did you see the knife?

No.

Gilbert didn’t show it to you?

He got there pretty fast. Minute he walked in he sends me to guard the front door.

Am I missing something? Frane asked.

Without answering, Crater continued. While I’m standing at the front door, two women walkers come along. So, I stop them, ask if they seen anything.

And?

They both talked at once. The first one, name of Lisa starts to tell me a story. The second, name is Joan, tells her to shut up. I say something like, ‘Listen, ladies. There’s some bad stuff going on in this house. If you saw something strange it could help us solve a crime’.

Go on.

This Lisa lady asks, ‘What kind of crime?’

Almost in disgust Frane said, And you told her.

Hey, she’s gonna see it in the paper. Besides, here’s the important thing, they both describe a man running down the street, carrying a bunch of clothes look like they were covered with blood. Or at least something red.

Let me guess. Turns out to be Jimmy Johnson, the perp.

Well, I’m taking some notes; get their names and addresses, and what they saw. By that time, the place is getting crowded. You know, Medical Examiner, Criminologists, finger print guys, the whole schmear. When I finally get to Detective Gilbert he’s having a fit, why I didn’t get to him sooner.

Let me guess. They find his prints all over the house and even some on the gun. Figure he shot the man upstairs, runs downstairs and knifes the other man, then scoots out of the house. Sounds like an open and shut case.

You got it right.

So, what’s the beef?

Still nervous, Crater looked at the whiskey bottle, noted that it was half empty, and poured four-fingers into his glass. Lieutenant, I ain’t a detective, but I been around. And, I don’t like homos.

So what?

Look, I grew up Catholic and I follow my upbringing. You might call me a conservative and that’s okay. I’m proud of it. But, I’m also an honest guy and an honest cop. This house was a den of iniquity. A place you stop in before you go to hell.

Where you going?

Just this. The guy got shot was Peter Scharf. Big time lawyer. Comes from a fancy Main Line family. All the advantages, went to Penn. Turns out he preferred men to women.

So, just because you have a pedigreed background doesn’t mean you don’t dance to a different tune. Takes all kinds.

Downing yet another swallow of whiskey, Crater added, That’s my point. I think maybe he got what he deserved. But, I think they nailed the wrong fag.

Frane sat back in his seat. You’ve been carrying this guilt for a long time.

Crater’s head drooped as his chin rested on his chest. There was a lot of other stuff going on. Point is, I got this load on my back. This Johnson been in jail for five years. They convinced him to cop-a-plea. None of the bad stuff came out in the trial. Some kind of cover-up. When Gilbert was offed, I just had to get out.

Frane leaned forward, inches away from Crater’s face, What do you mean Gilbert was offed?

When he lifted his head, beads of sweat covered his forehead and the moist from his eyes threatened to turn into tears. That’s why I called you, Lieutenant. Word is you’re a straight shooter.

Frane poured a few more drops of whiskey in his glass and took the time to refill Crater’s glass. He raised the glass in a half toast.

So, you want me to go back five years and see what happened?

Nodding his head, Crater answered, That’s about the size of it. You seem like the best man to find out who did Gilbert.

And Johnson?

Him too, I guess.

3   

May 10, 2003—8 P.M.

Jimmy, how good of you to come.

Where else should I be?

The two men embraced, warmly.

Peter Scharf smoothed his hair. He was very conscious of the grey showing. This natural change has its way when the ticking clock approaches sixty. Even though he had a few years to go, the aging process was relentless. Refusing to wear bifocals meant missing a few things now and then. To compensate for these realities he readily explained, My weight hasn’t changed since my college days.

Anyone else joining us tonight?

Oh, several interesting people. Come, let’s have a drink.

Jimmy Johnson was always impressed with these surroundings. The dark stained floors in the living room, covered in part with an Oriental carpet. The huge wine cabinet that held over a hundred bottles, not counting several dozen in the cooler waiting to be sipped. A massive collection of Waterford crystal glasses each designed for specific drinks; martinis, whiskey, red wine, white wine, champagne, and cognac. And, if called for, a few tapered glasses to serve after dinner cordials.

Scattered around the room were half a dozen padded chairs and two deep couches. Against the far wall was an entertainment center that included a selection of recent best selling books to accompany the collection of DVDs and tapes. Recessed lighting was set for bright. As the evening wore on, the lights would be dimmed to create a more intimate mood.

You have always liked this room, Jimmy.

Smiling. For two reasons. Really because it entices me based on my interest in art and decoration. Three years at the Moore College of Art taught me a great deal. But, probably more than that, because I still marvel how a black man like me can partake in this luxury.

You make an interesting point. Taken from my side, being raised on the Main Line, Penn Law School, all the opportunities in the world, not to mention a fair-sized trust fund, it doesn’t make sense. Still, we live in more enlightened times. Besides, I admire your shaved head, sparkling just like a burnt almond.

I’ve said this in the past, being with you has multiple benefits. You are an oasis in a society overpowered with its own guilt. The people I have met in this very house represent a form of freedom, democracy in action, if you will. I love it.

Beaming with appreciation, Scharf slipped his arm around Johnson and edged him toward the bar. Shall we have a glass of Pinot Grigio?

The bottle was resting in a silver bucket filled with crushed ice. Four sculpted wine glasses stood waiting. Scharf poured slowly, half filling each glass. As they raised the drinks, the front door opened. Both men hesitated as they turned to see who was coming.

Tommy. You’re just in time. Here, take my glass while I pour another. It’s so good to see you.

Tommy Jerold touched fingers with Jimmy Johnson. A gentle sign of a deep friendship.

You have a key to the house? asked Johnson.

Jerold grinned; his lips formed a pout, Comes with time. Only a few of us have a key.

Background questions were rarely asked, only offered. Jerold infrequently spoke of growing up in Haverford. Even his degree in Literature from Penn State University was almost a secret. Conversation rarely called upon him to display his entitled background.

Johnson showed surprise that, A few of us have a key.

Don’t feel badly, Jimmy, Scharf offered. There are many people who are welcome in my home. Some are very old friends, dating back more decades than you are old.

Not satisfied, Johnson said, I realize I’m new to the group. Outing in itself has been a mind-bending indulgence. But, I had no idea it was so extensive. I felt it was still a very private affair.

It is, added Jerold. This particular setting is a very private affair. Then laughing, However, it’s enjoyed by a select register of people.

Again, Scharf tried to reassure Jimmy Johnson. You’re here because we are linked by a common interest; kind thoughts, good drinks, and easy conversation, all of which leads to strong physical attractions.

I know all that. Yes, it’s good to be here. But, please remember, I am unique in my own way.

Absolutely, Scharf added. That’s what makes us so close, the fact that we have unique characteristics and unique life styles. What brings us together is a uniform desire to be with each other.

My being different stands out. I haven’t seen another black man here—ever.

Well, I’m tall, blonde and have blue eyes, said Jerold. I don’t recall ever seeing anyone here who meets that description.

You don’t understand, Tommy. I come from a poor background. My family, well let’s not talk about my family. But, you all come from well-to-do families. You’re accustomed to living this life style. Before you came in we were just talking about how impressed I have been with this house, the wines, the music, just about everything here is new to me. I love it. But, there are times I really feel disconnected.

Hey, you’re on target. But, like they say, ‘Ain’t we lucky’.

A knock on the door startled the three men.

Excuse me a minute, Scharf said. Can’t imagine who that might be. Think they would ring the bell.

4   

To clear his mind, Frane drove from his apartment in Manayunk down Kelly Drive to the back entrance of the Art Museum. By concentrating on his intention of reaching Greta Rogers apartment in the center of the city he was able to overcome the sadness he always felt when passing the site of so many murders. All the joggers who had been shot in this area always popped up in his imagination. It was only two years since the multiple shootings happened. What seemed like random murders turned into a strange tale of serial killings.

He pulled into the parking lot behind the Art Museum and locked the car. He stuffed a wallet, car keys, and a cell phone into his running pouch, along with a small .22 caliber pistol. Then, he jogged down Kelly Drive, reaching the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, on to 21st Street, south to Spruce Street until he saw the house Don Crater had identified as the double murder site, and then headed three more blocks to Rogers’ apartment.

Jogging at night was not his favorite time. But the physical activity, the distraction of keeping track of moving vehicles forced him to concentrate on the moment. When he stood in front of her building and watched the drops of perspiration splotch the pavement as he stretched, he felt refreshed.

Hi. Want to take a shower?

Best offer I’ve had today.

I meant alone.

Damn.

Get in there and change. I’ve got a frozen pizza that takes ten minutes. What kind of wine do you want?

Greta, you are wonderful. How about some of that Yellowtail Merlot? Goes good with pizza.

He found a plastic bag for his running gear and a shirt, slacks and underwear hanging on the back of the door. The running shoes without socks fit the occasion. Thanks, GG. I’m sorry it’s so late, but I had to talk with you.

Is this about us, or business?

Afraid it’s business. I need your best thinking.

Surprised she asked, At ten o’clock on a work night.

Come on, you know the law never rests.

I heard that somewhere and decided not to pay attention.

The pizza aroma wafted into the living room, a small area that Rogers had made comfortable. A fold-back table banked against the wall opened when she had company to dinner, which wasn’t too often. For the two of them it served its purpose. A small couch and one easy chair faced the TV screen. On the low book case was an assortment ranging from a study guide for police promotion to a copy of Reading Lolita in Tehran.

As he edged into the soft chair he asked, How do you feel about trying to prove a convicted killer is really innocent?

Come again.

A couple of blocks from here there was a double murder, maybe you remember it. Without going into too much detail right now, the first cop on the scene called me for a talk. He’s convinced that the wrong guy took the rap.

Why’d he keep it a secret? How long ago was this?

He wasn’t ready to share all the details, but I have a feeling there was some hanky-panky going on in the DA’s office.

Rogers sat at the table and motioned for Frane to have some pizza. Get it while it’s hot.

The house where all this happened turned out to be a haven for gay men. Nothing ostentatious; the neighbors never guessed. Still, lots of men, various ages came together for fun and games. Anyhow, on this particular night the host who was a man of about sixty, gets shot up in the bedroom, another man takes a knife to the heart in the living room, and a third man was seen running down the street carrying some clothes that had blood on them. Everybody involved in the investigation figures him for the perp; he’s tried and sent to Lewisburg for life.

Have you read any of the paper yet?

No, just talked with the retired cop tonight. What do you think?

She filled both glasses with more wine. Took time for a sip. I’m not sure what to think. Are we supposed to be finding people innocent when they’ve already been found guilty?

"Let’s put it another way. Suppose, just suppose it was a case we handled and now five years later some