Carolyn Banks - The New Black Mask (№6)

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.

Twice in July Roth was alone at the site in the late twilight. The first time a group of young boys would not leave the site even when Roth himself tried to chase them away, swore at them in fury as they defied him.

The second time Castro was sure it was the moment. As he walked up the empty street, Roth was alone. The younger man went inside the unfinished shell out of sight from the street. Castro moved quickly to the opening without a door. He bent to pick up the brick. Roth suddenly came out of the building again.

Roth was too young, too big. Castro couldn’t attack when Roth was facing him. So he smiled, talked to Roth casually as he had done before, then walked away along the street as usual.

His heart pounded, and his head throbbed. But he calmed himself again. He had to wait, be sure...

I felt the blood pound in Max Castro’s head, heard his voice tell himself he had to wait. In his killer’s mind I heard him say it over and over: Wait ... be patient. Haste, that was the greatest danger. Impatience. I heard his mind tell himself day after day: Slow, careful; don’t panic, don’t rush it; slow and careful and wait and there’ll be no mistakes...

All the weeks I’d spent digging, checking Castro’s routine and route past Norman Roth’s building, were on Captain Pearce’s desk.

“He could have gone along other streets,” I said. “He could have driven. But he was a known walker, and the route was logical enough. Stopping at that drugstore became a routine. He talked to Roth whenever Roth was at the site, casual and hiding nothing.”

Pearce nodded. “They all remember seeing him often.”

“But not one damned person is sure they saw him the day of the killing,” Schatz said.

“He planned it just that way,” I said.

“He walked right onto that building site and straight up to Roth,” Pearce said. “And no one saw anything.”

Schatz swore again. “A reasonable doubt all the way. Any jury would buy it.”

I felt Castro’s mind that last day. Eager, the adrenaline pumping. Time pressed in on him. The day had to come soon. Would it be that day? He couldn’t hold himself back much longer, the adoption proceedings would be before the judge soon. I felt the thin thread of tension, his mind fighting... go slow... follow the routine...