James Swain - Dark Magic

“Peter thinks he can help us solve the Bunny Ruttenberg kidnaping.”

“Be my guest.”

“He wants something in return,” she said.

“A horse trade?”

“That’s right.”

“I want to know about the guy who tried to stab me last night,” Peter jumped in.

Dagastino scratched his chin, and gave it some thought.

“You go first,” the detective said.

“Do we have a deal, or not?” Peter asked.

“We have a deal. Now, start talking.”

“The ransom note spray-painted on the wall of Bunny Ruttenberg’s apartment was put there by her husband, who the Post said was going to be let out of jail,” Peter said.

“You figured that out just by reading the Post ?” Dagastino snorted. “Give me a break, for Christ’s sakes.”

“It’s right there in the ransom note,” Peter said defensively.

“The note was spray-painted on the wall of the apartment. Our handwriting expert studied it. There was nothing to see,” Dagastino shot back.

“Your expert missed it. The clue was right there.”

“What clue?”

“Magicians call it the familiar-name principle. I’ll show you.” Peter turned his back to the desk. “In random order, write the name of someone important to you on a piece of paper, then write the names of four people you don’t care about on the same piece of paper.”

Dagastino’s pen scratched across a legal pad. “Done.”

Peter turned back around. Dagastino handed him the pad, which he studied. Five names were written across it. A quick glance told him everything he needed to now.

“The second name on the pad, Maryann Magliaro, is someone you care deeply about,” Peter said. “Am I right?”

Dagastino’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“Is she your wife?”

“Jesus H. Christ. How’d you know that ?” the detective asked.

“You wrote her name differently,” Peter explained.

“I did?”

“Yes. You’ve probably written your wife’s name hundreds of times, maybe more. You wrote her name without having to think about it, and used the subconscious part of your brain. The other names you had to think about, and therefore used the conscious part of your brain. The difference shows up in the handwriting. It’s an old magic trick.”

Peter had the copy of the Post under his arm. He laid the paper on the desk and pointed to the ransom note in the story. “Look at the words in the note. They all have paint dripping down them, except Bunny Ruttenberg’s name. Her kidnaper spray-painted her name without having to think about it. It’s her husband.”

Dagastino studied the ransom note printed in the newspaper. “That’s brilliant. Now how do we get him to admit it?”

Peter had thought about that while sitting in the lobby. The Post article said the Ruttenbergs had been married forty years. He guessed this was a crime of passion, and that there were other clues in the apartment that the police had missed.

“Let me see the file,” he said.

Dagastino went and got the file. “Find something to incriminate the husband, and I’ll tell you everything we know about the guy who tried to cut your heart out.”

“Deal,” Peter said.

The Ruttenberg file was an inch thick. It included a stack of black-and-white crime scene photos taken at the Ruttenberg’s multi-million-dollar Park Avenue penthouse. Even by New York standards, the dwelling was spectacular, and filled with the finest things money could buy. The panoramic view of Central Park was enough to take a person’s breath away.

Peter sat at Dagastino’s desk. He quickly sorted through the photos, and found himself drawn to a shot of the master bedroom, which was bigger than most apartments in the city. Something about the walk-in closet struck him as odd, and he showed the photo to Schoch.

“This doesn’t look right,” he said.

“What do you mean?” Schoch replied.

“Look at the way the clothes are hung. Bunny Ruttenberg’s dresses are in the back of the closet, behind her husband’s suits and sport coats. A woman wouldn’t let her husband put his clothes in front of hers, would she?”

“You’ve got a point. What do you think it means?”

“The husband knows his wife isn’t coming back. He killed her, and is feeling guilty about what he’s done. He moved her clothes so he doesn’t have to look at them.”

“So his conscience is eating at him.”

“Yes. He probably wanted to throw the clothes out, only he knew it would look suspicious, so he moved them instead.”

“Hey, Dag, take a look at this,” Schoch said.

Dagastino was schmoozing with another detective. He hustled over, and Schoch pointed out the discrepancy in the photo.

“That’s good. Give me more,” Dagastino said.

Peter spread the photos across the detective’s desk, and looked for more evidence of the husband’s guilt. One photo showed a dresser in the master bedroom with the couple’s wedding photo on it. Bunny’s face was blocked by an alarm clock.

“Here’s another. The husband can’t bear to look at his wife’s face, so he stuck an alarm clock in front of it. He’s guilty as sin.”

Dagastino stuck a stick of gum into his mouth. He vigorously chewed while staring at the photo of the dresser.

“What are you thinking?” Schoch asked.

“I want to pull the husband out of the holding cell in the basement, and grill him while making him look at Bunny’s picture,” her partner said.

“Think he might crack?” Schoch asked.

“Could happen.”

“I’ll go get him.” Schoch slipped on her jacket and went to retrieve the husband.

“I’d like to watch,” Peter said. “I might see something else.”

“The more the merrier,” Dagastino replied.

Henry Ruttenberg was moved from the holding cell to an interrogation room on the third floor. The room was small, and had a desk and two chairs. A distinguished-looking man with silver hair, Ruttenberg sat with a blank look on his face and examined his fingernails.

The door banged open, and Dagastino came in. In his hand was a photo of Bunny Ruttenberg printed off the Internet. She was an attractive woman, and could have passed for an aging movie star. He slapped the photo on the desk.

“You didn’t mean to kill her, did you, Henry?” Dagastino asked.

Ruttenberg stared at his wife’s lovely visage, and his eyes grew moist.

“It was an accident, right?” Dagastino barked.

Ruttenberg shut his eyes, and did not respond.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Dagastino said.

The suspect opened his eyes. The blank look had returned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There was no accident,” Ruttenberg said.

“Then it was a fit of rage.”

“Stop it.”

“Here’s my question, Henry. How soon after you murdered your wife did you decide to move her clothes to the back of your closet?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You knew she wasn’t coming back, but you couldn’t part with her things without people getting suspicious.” Dagastino put his fists on the desk. “You gave yourself away, Henry.”

Ruttenberg stared at the photo of his wife, and remained silent.

“You even moved your wife’s picture on your dresser so you wouldn’t have to look at it. You still love her, don’t you?”

A long minute passed. Ruttenberg’s chin dipped, and tears rolled down his face. Dagastino handed him a tissue, and the accused man loudly blew his nose.

“You figured it out,” Ruttenberg said.

“Yes, we did. But some of the details are sketchy. Why don’t you fill us in? It will go a long way with the judge.”