The Dark Side Of Justice

Chapter 5-1

We could not find Gino Alberti. After asking a few questions we found the dorm the kid lived in.

Empty.

Gino had not been seen for at least two days. Frank and I talked to everyone on the floor Gino"s dorm room was on. The last time anyone remembered seeing Gino was two days earlier, and what they remembered was that Gino had been extremely upset … mad at someone … and he made his anger known to anyone who asked. Several of his dorm mates told us that Gino really was upset with Dr. Holdridge. So upset, he was talking about doing the professor in. Several times he said he wanted to kill that dickhead professor, and, put away forever that lousy excuse for a teacher.

that dickhead professor, , put away forever that lousy excuse for a teacher.The last time Gino was seen was around eight in the evening. Someone on the floor answered the pay phone down at the end of the hall and the call had been for Gino. A couple of grunts and then a loud, “f**k you!” and Gino hung up and stormed off the floor, fit to skewer the nearest faculty member he met.

He hadn"t been seen since. Although, we did get a lead on someone who might know where he was. His girlfriend, Alicia Addams, knew just about everything that was going on around the campus. She and Gino were tight, really tight, we were told. If anyone knew where Gino was it would be Alicia.

“Isn"t that Holdridge"s student-assistant?” Frank asked as we climbed back into the old Ford.

“Yep.” I answered, sitting back in the seat and hitting the fan controls on the heater. “Sweet little thing too. I can see why Gino went for her. Smart, working on her master’s degree as well. In physics.”

“Two eggheads fall in love with each other. Gee, ain"t love funny?” Frank said, dripping in syrup and grinning as he rolled the car out of the parking lot and onto the street. “Where to now?”

“A change in course, Captain. Let"s find Abbott"s place of work. I want to know how many women he was involved with romantically.”

“You mean how many he screwed?”

“Right, something like that.” I nodded, smiling.

We crossed town as snow began to fall from low hanging, gray and black clouds. Only, this time the snow was falling with no wind. They say Chicago has a lot of wind. But I"m here to tell you no place on earth has as much wind as this city does. The yearly average is fifteen miles per hour daily. It’s not uncommon to see the wind kicking along about twenty miles per hour all day long, especially in the summertime. If you are born in this state, then you better be prepared for wind. In fact, the wind needs to blow in my face every day. I need to have a fan blowing in my face at night when I go to bed. A day without wind is a day I"m nervous and jumpy. There was no wind kicking the snow around at the moment. But the snow was falling and making the city sort of relax and slow down. As we drove across town, I found myself mellowing out and unwinding. I even saw pedestrians wave and smile as we drove by. It was a good feeling.

We went back to Abbott"s apartment and asked a few more questions. Eventually we found out that he worked at a health spa down on 137th street South and Woodlawn. Climbing back into the car we drove south until we found the spa. About twenty minutes of asking questions there we found out that he had two loves in his life. One was Rebecca Pickford and the other was a girl by the name of Eudora Felting.

“You think this Eudora Felting is the big-boobed mystery girl who kept extra underwear over at Abbott"s apartment?”

“Won"t know that until we find her, Sherlock,” I said, smiling at the face of Frank. He had this lecherous old man"s grin on his face, and he was cracking me up. “Let"s see if she"s got a driver"s license in this state.”

She did. We got her address and took our time driving over to where she lived. It was, we were curious to find out, in a quiet residential neighborhood on the east end of town. An old, well-established neighborhood, with big oak trees towering over the small, bungalow-styled homes, and deep, luxurious front yards.

As we climbed out of the car the snow by now was beginning to come down at a faster rate. So fast in fact I didn"t see Eudora come out of her front door until she was off the porch and walking to the attached garage.

“Miss Eudora Felting?” I said, startling her as she jerked her head up and looked at me through the falling snow.

She was a tall woman. Much taller than Bruce Abbott and considerably huskier in build. She was big boned. Yet far from being fat. She had on a long, gray wool coat and around her head was a scarf to protect her shoulder length blonde hair. She was well endowed with a chest that would make a man stagger with anticipation.

“Yes? Who are you?

“Sergeant Turner Hahn, of Homicide. And this is my partner, Sergeant Frank Morales. Do you have time for us to ask you a few questions?”

“Concerning?

“You have not heard of the deaths of Bruce Abbott, or a girl by the name of Rebecca Pickford?” Frank asked, glancing at me, and stepping closer to the powerful looking woman.

“Wha … what? Bruce has been murdered!” she said, her eyes widening. Then she suddenly grew weak and bent at the knees.

We caught her just as she was about to do a dive into the large, snow-covered bush at the edge of her sidewalk. With each of us gripping an arm we carried her up onto her porch and out of the snow. By time we got to the porch, her eyes were running over with tears and messing up the thick coating of mascara she had only recently applied. Generously.

With shaking hands and a face as pale white as the falling snow, Eudora found her house key and fumbled around enough to open the door. We three walked into a small, but warm front room of the home. Shrugging off her coat, which fell off her and straight to the floor, she made her way over to a recliner chair and sagged into its deep cushion, burying her face into her hands to cry for a few moments. But only for a short time. She finally sobbed, blew her nose with a Kleenex she reached for from a box of Kleenexes on the coffee table between us, then wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Jesus! Bruce is dead? How? Who?” she sobbed, her eyes red and her face still streaked with black runs from the mascara.

“That"s what we were hoping you would be able to tell us, Miss Felting,” I said. I looked at her and then pointed to a couple of suitcases which had been quickly deposited in the hallway, visible from the living room and in front of a door that might have led into a bedroom. “Just returned from a trip?”

“Yes … yes. I"ve been in St. Louis since last Thursday,” she nodded, blowing her nose in another Kleenex, and then reaching for a third. “I"m a nurse. The head nurse at a retirement home. I"ve been in St. Louis at a convention for nursing home staff. I was a speaker at two meetings, plus I attended several others. But tell me, who killed Bruce?”

“We don"t know,” Frank said, looking Eudora Felting over carefully. “But someone entered his home while he was in his bathtub and smacked him upside the head.”

“My God! The poor little man,” she whimpered, eyes filling with tears again as she lifted a hand up to cover her trembling lip, “I … I was just about to get into my car and rush over to his apartment! I … I"ve missed him so much and I was eager to see him!”

She broke into a low moan of sobbing again and we sat back and waited for her to regain control. She was a woman in her mid-thirties and decent enough at which to look. Her face had too much make up on for my tastes, and she liked to wear her hair in some fashion straight out of the nineteen fifties, but she was narrow in the hips and with a flat stomach … plus very well supplied with breasts. Her bosom was large, healthy, and obviously something she was proud of. She had on a tight, form fitting dress that accentuated her best anatomical features. It was a yellow dress with big, white plastic buttons running down the front. I could imagine her and Abbott rolling around on the bed with Abbott unbuttoning each big button, one button at a time, as she struggled to rip his pants off.

Eudora Felting was a woman who had a taste for men. She was earthy. Willing. Appreciative of a male being around. She radiated a kind of invitation which naturally drew men to her. She was big framed, but not fat. She looked strong, possibly stronger than Abbott would have been. Certainly, strong enough to hit such a small man with a blunt instrument on the side of his head and crush it in.

Her crying was too convincing … too genuine. And there was the other problem. She said she had been out of town since Thursday of last week. That could be checked, it would be checked, but I was fairly sure she was telling the truth.

“How long did you know Abbott, Miss Felting?” Frank asked, his voice growing soft as we listened to her genuine anguish at the loss of a loved one.

“Maybe three, four months. He works … worked … down at a spa I have a membership in. I joined it soon after my husband and I got a divorce. He gave the best massages I"ve ever had.”

“Did you know a girl by the name of Rebecca Pickford?” I asked, watching her wipe her eyes free of tears again with shaking hands.

“Well … not personally. But I think she was a member of the spa. Why?”

“She was murdered, too. And she and Abbott knew each other as well,” I said, tactfully not mentioning that Abbott and Pickford had been lovers.

“Oh. My God, what"s happening here?” she whispered, her eyes growing big with fear. “Do you know who the killer is? Or killers?”

“Not yet. We’ll find them soon,” I said, smiling and trying to sound confident. “But I have to ask you this, Miss Felting. Sorry about being so blunt. Did you and Abbott know each other intimately?”

She looked at me and at Frank with big blue eyes, eyes lined red from crying, then she smiled that lost, forlorn smile of someone who has forever lost something cherished deep in their heart as she brought a trembling hand up to her cheek.

“Do you mean were we lovers, Sergeant? Yes. I loved Bruce, and I"m sure he loved me.”

“You said you were in St. Louis,” Frank broke in, glancing at me, frowning, then back at the big woman. “Can you give me the name of the hotel in which you stayed?”