After the fourth or fifth ring, Frank Elwell looked up from his desk at the telephone with “Line 2” blinking. The detective wasn’t sure how many rings there’d been, because he was wrapped up in finishing the paperwork on his most recent multi-perp, gang-related homicide case. He stood and scanned the detectives’ bullpen area. No heads were visible above the cubicles. The phone continued to ring. “Hey! Anybody else here?” No sound and no response. Frank heaved an audible sigh and dropped back into his chair. He reached for the receiver, punched the flashing button, and, trying his best not to seem annoyed, said, “Yeah? Detective Elwell speaking.”
A small voice at the other end of the line responded, “Yes. My name is Anthony DeAngelo. I need to report a murder.”
Reaching for a pad and pen on his desk, Elwell shifted into his businesslike mode. “Yes, sir. What is the name of the victim?”
“Gladys Burkhalter.” The name was vaguely familiar to the detective as he wrote it.
“Were you a witness to the crime, sir?”
“No, Detective, I wasn’t.”
“Okay, then. At what location did the murder occur?”
“Oh, I don’t have an address, per se.”
Elwell was losing his battle with frustration, but pressed on calmly. “All right, Mr. DeAngelo, in what part of the city was it committed?”
“Well, you see, it didn’t occur here in the city. It was in Manarola, Italy. She–”
“What?” Exasperation had won the struggle for the detective’s mind. He dragged a gnarled hand over his ruddy face and wadded the paper he’d been writing on. Frank abruptly stood back up at his desk, as if being erect might better convince the caller of his argument. “Mr. DeAngelo, even if there were a murder, as you claim, I don’t have the authority to investigate it! That is up to their local police!”
“Detective Elwell, the Carabinieri investigated the incident. And they dismissed it as an accident. But I have information they didn’t have to prove it was an intentional killing. I need to speak to you in person and explain. I tell you, Mrs. Burkhalter did not die by accidentally falling from a cliff!”
Suddenly, Frank realized why the woman’s name rang a bell with him. The local papers had reported that Mrs. Burkhalter died after a tragic fall from a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean in a northern Italian coastal village. She was the wife of locally prominent attorney Harvey Burkhalter.
Anthony’s voice had a determined quality to it. Despite his better judgment against chasing a wild goose, the investigator agreed to meet the insistent man when he came to the station house. As he cradled the receiver, Detective Frank Elwell wondered whether a full moon was waiting just below the horizon.
* * *
An hour later, Frank was still at his desk reviewing the final reports before turning the case over to his lieutenant. A uniformed officer stuck her head around the corner of his workspace. He didn’t notice her. She spoke his name. When he looked up, she told him there was someone at the sergeant’s desk who needed to speak to him. She smiled slightly, knowing the plainclothesman would not be happy at the interruption. The detective looked from the officer back to the organized chaos of his work surface and dropped the papers he was holding. Since disconnecting from the phone call with DeAngelo, Elwell was having second thoughts about getting involved with what he considered a dead-end inquiry.
He lifted his tall, thin frame from his chair and ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, mumbling, “All right, Attaway. I’ll be right there.” He pushed back from his desk and pulled on his suit coat before following her down the hallway to the entrance to the building.
When Elwell reached the waiting area of the police station, he looked askance at the sergeant located behind a bulletproof glass screen at the front desk. Victims, witnesses, cranks, complainers, and so forth crowded the outer room. Sergeant Pulaski gave a slight nod toward a man sitting alone on a wooden bench across the lobby. The detective pushed through a door and approached the person, extending his hand. As he did, the unassuming little man rose, shook hands with the officer, and introduced himself as Anthony DeAngelo.
The visitor hesitantly looked around at the small, eclectic group of people there. He then leaned in to the detective and asked whether they could speak somewhere privately. The veteran cop recognized an unavoidable situation when he saw one. Elwell, suppressing another heavy sigh, led the way down a corridor to an empty interview room. He’d decided against speaking with the man in his cubicle. Putting a quick end to this well-intentioned but useless conversation might be simpler in an interrogation room.
After the two men took chairs across a metal table from each other, the detective began. “Mr. DeAngelo, after we spoke, I called a friend of mine at the local newspaper. He told me there was nothing further on the story beyond what had been in the press that one time. My associate faxed me a copy of the article written about Mrs. Burkhalter’s accident. When I–”
“Murder,” the smallish man said with determination. He slid to the front edge of his seat impatiently.
“What?” Frank blurted. He realized at once what his visitor meant and raised a restraining hand in an exasperated gesture. “Now look, Mr. DeAngelo, the Italian authorities have labeled it an accident. And until they or I have proof to the contrary, that’s what it remains.” Elwell paused, but only for the second it took Anthony to attempt a response, which the detective interrupted. “After several telephone calls to Italy to locate the appropriate authorities, I learned a few things. First, I determined there’s a seven-hour time difference between here and Genoa. So, late afternoon here is late evening there. And, apparently, people in Italy don’t like to have their evenings disturbed or their bedtimes delayed by what they consider nonsense.”
The detective again raised a restrictive finger to fend off an exasperated DeAngelo. “The American Consular Agency in Genoa directed me to the correct police department. There, I found someone who spoke pretty good English and confirmed what the consul had told me. Mrs. Burkhalter’s death was an accident. The investigation left no doubt. Fortunately, it is a rare occurrence, but it can happen.” The lawman sat back, satisfied with his argument and the work he’d done looking into Mr. DeAngelo’s allegation.
“Simply put, Detective Elwell, I know better. Burkhalter killed his wife.”
Frank leaned across the table. “I don’t understand why you are so convinced a well-respected citizen such as Harvey Burkhalter might kill his loving wife while on vacation. The idea is preposterous.”
“Well, he–”
“Were you in Manarola when the lady fell?”
“No–”
“Or even in Europe at the time?”
“No, but I–”
“What motive would he have?”
“I don’t know, but–”
“Are you a friend of the Burkhalters, Mr. DeAngelo?”
The diminutive man’s patience was waning, but he remained determined. “No. I only encountered the man once,” he injected quickly.
“So, this prominent, loving couple go on a brief vacation, where she falls off a cliff while admiring what I’ve been told is an amazing view. And you, who don’t even know them, who only met Mr. Burkhalter that one time, come in here, claiming he’s a murderer?”
DeAngelo was determined not to be interrupted again. “I simply think you or Interpol or whoever should look into it more.” He hurried his words.
“I’m assured the European authorities checked it out, Mr. DeAngelo. No sign of foul play. Merely a straightforward, yet extremely unfortunate accident on a quick holiday before their only daughter’s wedding two weeks later.”
“That’s just it, detective. They both should have been coming home from the trip. When I read about it, I knew. You see, I’m a travel agent, specializing in trips back to the old country for individuals and small groups. Mr. Burkhalter appeared at my business one day. He bought these tickets so they could visit the five villages of the Cinque Terre, a popular tourist destination in northern Italy.” At this point, Elwell was nodding only to keep DeAngelo talking and get the conversation finished. “Manarola is a little town, a frazione of the comune of Riomaggiore, in the province of La Spezia, Liguria region. It’s the second smallest of the famous Cinque Terre towns.”
“Enough of the commercial travelogue already! Tell me something which points me toward a murder, Mr. DeAngelo.”
The small man bowed up. “I sold him the tickets to fly into nearby Genoa and return.”
“So?”
“So, he bought one round-trip ticket and one one-way ticket for her.” ©
