Once Bitten, Twice Dead Read online

  Heller finished stacking the pots and pans—very neatly—turned over a washtub, and sat down on it. “Welcome to my office.”

  “Mr. Heller, I want to ask you about Randall Procopius.”

  “Who?”

  “You had some finance dealings with him—investment stocks.”

  “Oh, yes, things didn’t work out too well there.”

  “No, they didn’t. Maybe you know that Mr. Procopius is no longer among the living.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He was murdered, and I wonder if you know anything about that.”

  “Know anything about his murder? What do you think I am? You think I’m a killer.”

  “You murdered three people, Mr. Heller.”

  “That was totally by chance. I had set those other fires and no one had died. I was careful. I set those fires only in places where there were plenty of exits. I never wanted anyone to die.”

  “What the police told me was that the grandmother and the little girl didn’t know there was a back exit.”

  “See—that’s what I told you. I didn’t plan that. Why were you asking about that investment guy, anyway?”

  “You lost a lot of money on his advice, and maybe you wanted some payback of another kind. Also someone poured gasoline on him and threw him into his own fireplace. I heard it was quite a fire.”

  “What an awful way to die! I’ll say it again—I never wanted to burn up people. But I did like to see things burn”—Heller’s eyes got wide—“when I was a kid I set fire to a lot of things—I almost burnt down my parents’ house once, but never people. That’s murder!”

  “Yes, it is, Mr. Heller.”

  “Besides, that money loss wasn’t much. I had plenty left. I didn’t want any revenge.”

  “I checked on both these areas. You lost $120,000 with Randall as your adviser, and your bank account was down to $800 when you were arrested.”

  Garth looked down at his food-stained shoes. “You are right; I was practically bankrupt, and now I’ve had my gainful employment taken away from me. I don’t know how my wife will make it without me.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Heller. She does have a job now. You had a pretty good deal going with your job.”

  “He gave a slight grin. “I always knew what caused the fires. I got three promotions in four years. But I’m not a murderer like you’re making me out to be. Those deaths in that fabric store were like collateral damage in a war.”

  “I guess the war is just beginning for you now, Mr. Heller.”

  He gave me a look. “I saw you looking at the scratches on my face. I’ve also got two broken ribs, the prison doc. says. I don’t know how long I’ll survive.”

  I was having trouble feeling sorry for Garth Heller. My strongest emotion was that I was glad when they opened up that final door to let me out. I don’t think I’d last long in a prison myself before I went haywire. Talking with Garth Geller, he was probably telling the truth about not killing Randall Procopius. When I brought up the money situation, he didn’t seem to have any anger toward Randall; it was his wife’s survival he thought about. Also, when I told Heller how Randall had died, she seemed truly aghast.

  He was a man who just liked to see things burn. He might not feel any guilt for those three people dying, but in future years the other prisoners will show Garth Heller just how responsible he is for those deaths.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  A week later, still another prison came to my attention. Winnie Pramp, one of my suspects in the Carla Strand murder, escaped from one.

  Winnie had gotten herself put in the prison infirmary pretending illness—nose bleeding—maybe she had hit her face against the cell door on purpose. A guard later speculated, “It was really bleeding: I had to take her to the infirmary.” Once there, two hours later Winnie knocked out a woman attendant, put on her uniform and walked out to freedom. Apparently something had been arranged with someone else because near the prison gate another guard saw a car pull up, and Winnie got in.

  Now, it was four days later, and no sign of Winnie. But then I caught sight of her in a most unlikely place—my living room.

  Trying to relax after another trying day of many questions and no answers, I had just plopped myself in front of the TV with a huge bowl of popcorn, ready to settle down to a 76ers basketball game. The Sixers had been hot lately, winning eight in a row—tonight they were trying to make it nine against the second best team in the Western Division. So I was ready for some good entertainment.

  What I wasn’t ready for was to see Winnie Pramp appear on the TV screen. But as the camera panned the crowd for pre-game funny faces, there she was eating her own popcorn, sitting next to Cody Phillips, a person who had vehemently denied to me that he was her friend. Now I knew whose car had spirited Winnie away from the prison.

  Forgetting I had a bowl of popcorn on my lap, I leaped off the couch sending a snow shower onto my rug. I didn’t have time to clean it up—I had to get down to the Wachovia Center before the end of the game.

  I made it by halftime. But actually getting into the game was another matter.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, you can’t go in if you don’t have a ticket, and the game is sold out.”

  “But the game is almost over.”

  “No, it’s only half over.”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  “Yeah, right—and I’m the winner of American Idol. The young ticket-taker, all 300 pounds of her would not budge.

  “Here’s my badge—look.”

  “You people really abuse your authority. Go ahead in if you’re that desperate to see the game.”

  “There’s a prison escapee in there. I have to get her.”

  “Don’t make up silly stories—just go in.”

  For the next forty minutes I walked around and around looking for, but not spotting, Winnie Pramp. There was now ten minutes left in the game, and with the Sixers having fallen thirteen points behind, some people were filing out. If the crowd began leaving in droves it would be impossible to find Winnie. However, in the next six game minutes the Philly team rallied, and the game was tied. Now, hardly anyone else had left their seats, and suddenly I saw Winnie. There she was way up in the nose-bleed section still sitting next to Cody.

  I tried to approach cautiously, but there was nothing to shield me as I took the long vertical stairs. Damn—she spotted me. Actually Cody was the first to see me, and they both took off running for one of the exit tunnels. As I sped up the stairs, an attendant physically grabbed me: “Hey, slow down!” There would be no use in telling him I was after a prison escapee.

  “Sorry about that.”

  As I left the Wachovia Center I saw my two track stars hop into Cody’s car. At least he had gotten into the driver’s side. My car, of course, was at the other end of the parking lot, but I was able to see that they were headed for I-95 toward New York City.

  By the time I got to my car I was five minutes behind them, but going down the New Jersey Turnpike I drove like a maniac, and maybe they got slowed down by some heavy traffic because within twenty minutes I could see the white Honda in front of me. Suddenly, though, a tour bus pulled in front of me, and I was the one who was slowed down. As I finally passed the bus, I saw the Honda far ahead make the turn for the Tunnel.

  Through the tunnel and into the theater district, I was able to get right behind them, and I did a maneuver I’d seen only on TV during cop chases. I came up to the back door of their car and give them a kind of sideways bump. Amazingly it worked, and they careened into a light pole.

  They both jumped out of the car, and I thought I had them, but suddenly they ran down an alley which I overshot with my car. By the time I backed up, they were at the other end, hopping into a cab. I was now only three cars behind when suddenly there was a flash inside the cab. Oh, my god, had they shot the driver? I knew that both Winnie and Cody possessed guns. However, that cab, maybe with a wounded driver, kept going, now heading for the river.


  Closer to the Hudson I got cut off by a sports car, and I momentarily lost sight of the cab. Ah, there it is—I see it. Two blocks later I was finally able to pull in front of the cab and cause it to veer to a stop. I ran to the cab, but there was no one in it but the driver—a driver who looked uninjured.

  “Where are your passengers?”

  “I dropped them off at the pier back there. Are you as crazy as they are? They pulled a gun on me.”

  “Did they shoot you? I saw a flash in your cab.”

  The guy laughed. “No, those are my ceiling lights.”

  “You have lights on the ceiling of your cab??”

  “Don’t you know? This is Cash Cab, where we ask the passengers questions and give them money if they answer correctly. It’s like a game show on wheels.”

  Now I had to laugh. “I was chasing you because that girl in your cab had recently escaped from prison.”

  “No wonder they seemed so desperate. They robbed me. It’s called Cash Cab because I carry folding money to give to the winners. They took my last $900.”

  I was frustrated. Not only had I missed them getting out of the cab, but now I had spent precious seconds gabbing with a TV guy. “I have to get back to that pier. I’ll see if I can get your money back for you.”

  “Thanks. This is better than the show I’m in. It was a real-life chase.”

  “Yes, very thrilling. Bye.”

  When I got to the end of the pier, only Cody was standing there.

  “Cody, where’s Winnie?”

  “In there.” He pointed to the black water.

  “She jumped in?”

  “We were going to keep going when suddenly she stopped the cab and said, ‘I’m done,’ and started running down the pier. I yelled after her to stop, but all she said was, ‘I can’t go back to that hell-hole—they’ll add more years now.’ And before I had gotten to the end of the pier she had jumped in. I would have gone in after her, but I can’t swim.

  “I heard her voice from the water call back to me, ‘I feel peaceful now; I’ve always liked the water.’”

  Cody and I got the Port Authority to take us out in one of their boats, but in the darkness we couldn’t find Winnie. And, even days later, no body had washed up. It did seem that Winnie had finally gotten some peace.

  Before I left Cody that night, there were two more matters to be settled.

  “The money, Cody?”

  “Money? What money??”

  “I stopped the cab driver. He told me.”

  “Oh, yeah, that money. I was going to give it back.”

  “Of course. Hand it over.”

  “Here it is, the hundred dollars.”

  “The driver also told me the amount.”

  “My memory just isn’t too good tonight.”

  “Now, there’s one other problem. There’s the matter of helping someone escape from prison. That can get you some nice relaxation, maybe in similar conditions that Winnie had.”

  “No, I can’t go to prison. I was just trying to help her.”

  Earlier, I had thought long and hard about this—maybe five minutes. I let Cody go. I figured if it made a seemingly strong person go crazy being incarcerated, what would it do to a person, like Cody, who at least seemed weaker? Cody actually had not harmed anyone. And Winnie’s decisions had been totally her own.

  Maybe Cody would use this chance to make something of himself in the future. At least I hoped so.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  David and I were alone in his apartment. We were talking about Winnie’s suicide.

  “I felt so sad,” I said. “A young life, thrown away.”

  “I guess being in prison was just intolerable to her.”

  “Yes, she said she couldn’t go back.”

  “There are things, Raven, that happen to people, and they just can’t tolerate them. It’s too much—it pushes them over the edge.”

  “You said it: right off the edge of the pier.”

  For a moment we sat there in silence, close to each other, with David’s arm around me. Each of us was lost in his own thoughts.

  I finally spoke. “David, your parents told me a little about their life, but when I think about it, I don’t know much about you.”

  His handsome face, with his big brown eyes, turned to look right into my eyes. “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything you want to tell me. For instance, what was your childhood like? Your joys, your dislikes, your experiences?”

  “I always liked sports. I played end in high school and college, and running out for a pass and seeing that ball coming toward me made my heart pound. Then leaping for it, I felt I could almost fly. All kinds of sports occupied most of my time back then.

  “Did you have any disappointments, setbacks?”

  “I guess school itself was a big set-back. I never did well in it. There was always something better to do than study. If I hadn’t gotten an athletic scholarship, my grades were so poor I probably would not have gone to college.”

  “You’ll pardon me for inflating your ego, but you seem quite intelligent.”

  “I come off well. Before I became a cop, I sold insurance, and my bosses always told me that I impressed the clients.”

  “When you were young, who made an impression on you? Was it a sports hero?”

  “Now you’re making me think.” David stared out into space; then his face clouded a bit. “Actually I think it was my grandfather who influenced me the most. Even when I was a little kid of seven or eight, I never had to call him ‘Pop-pop,’ or ‘Gramps.’ He always had me call him by his name—Ronald. He always treated me like an adult.”

  “That was unusual.”

  “He was an unusual man. We had many good conversations together. As I think my dad mentioned to you he himself worked in the mines for awhile and then became a teacher, but Ronald spent his entire life in those mines.”

  “A difficult job.”

  “He never complained. Even when his health began to fail, I never heard anything about how difficult it all was. Then, later when I really did become an adult, I realized how hard it must have been because Ronald eventually got black lung disease. I think the last months of his life must have been pretty grim because my parents restricted my time with him then. I think they wanted to protect me from seeing all of Ronald’s suffering. His room became off-limits for me: toward the end, just the doctor and mom and dad went in there.

  “But then one day, my dad said, ‘Ronald is calling for you. He wants you to go upstairs to see him.”

  “How old were you?”

  “I had just had my ninth birthday. When I saw him I was shocked. It had been at least a month without any contact between us. He was always a robust man, maybe 6’3,” 200 pounds, but what I saw when I went up to that room was a skeleton. Three or four times he had to ask me for water—he looked too weak to even reach for a glass himself. His breathing was agonized, in and out, in and out, making a loud sound each time.

  “I had been in there only five minutes when Ronald said, ‘I’m going to die, David.’ I didn’t know what to say. I knew what death was, but it was inconceivable to me that my grandfather would ever die. He took my hand and told me something I remember to this day. ‘David,’ he said, ‘Remember this: it’s better to be poor and humble than to be rich and vain.’ Then he gasped, dropped my hand, and clutched his throat. He gave one final wheeze and was still.”

  “So you saw him die?”

  “Yes. Then I just sat there with him for I don’t know how long. I finally went downstairs to tell my parents that Ronald had passed.”

  “Quite an experience.”

  “It was. Ronald, like my dad never made much money, but he had character. I’m not making much money as a cop, but I hope I can live up to the values both of them have given me.”

  At that point I didn’t want to tell David about all the money I had inherited. At that moment I wondered if my more affluent status would bother him. I did
a little fishing, to see his reaction.

  “Do you think money does bad things to people?”

  “It could, Raven. I’ve seen wealthy people who had everything material they could want, but they were miserable human beings. There was a man who lived up the hill from us in Scranton. The people in the hills had money—we, in the valley, were just barely making it. This man, with his big mansion was one of the richest of ‘the hill people,’ as we called them.

  “On the way to school I had to pass down below where he would usually sit in his deck chair with his drink propped up on his huge belly. Even then, to me it seemed that he was wasting his life. He always seemed to be filling his face with food and drink, and sometimes he would throw lavish parties with loud music and yelling into the night. It seemed that McWurter—that was his name—all he lived for was to give himself pleasure. It was so different from my grandfather and father.

  “One day I was going into town for an errand for my mom, and I was passing below McWurter again. There he was stuffing himself and watching me walk by. He always watched me. I was always nervous going on that path underneath that fat man because he would always just stare at me until I would pass out of his sight. I could feel his eyes on me.

  “It had rained hard the night before. I guess that day I was especially nervous under McWurter’s gaze because I slipped and fell in the mud. My mother had scrimped and saved to buy me the new outfit I was wearing, and now it was totally a mess. To add to my humiliation, laughter echoed down the hillside. McWurter was enjoying my plight. Still on the ground, I looked up at him now standing with his stomach protruding over his pants, and his shirt hanging out. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled to make sure I could hear: ‘That’s what poverty does to you people. You can’t even stand up straight.’

  “That incident happened maybe a month after my grandfather died and I thought back to his words about vanity and rich people. I ran the rest of the two miles into town.”

  As David told me that story, I began to feel an odd distance from him, primarily because in his eyes I could be one of those “rich people.”