Was there a connection between the Powell-Kelly case and the heist or Esther’s disappearance? I still didn’t know after talking to Katie Jones. Was I barking up the wrong tree again? For some reason, I sensed a tie. But I couldn’t figure out what it was.
Who was Tillman Carter? Had he just been feeding Kelly’s sister a line when he said he believed in Kelly’s innocence? Or had he actually found a new angle on the Powell killing? And, by extension, the heist and the Todd kidnapping? Maybe his reasoning had nothing to do with Esther’s case, but suppose it did?
The Gotham High Bookstore on 48th Street and Sixth Avenue had one of the most comprehensive book collections in Manhattan. I went there right after seeing Katie Jones.
A salesgirl who looked as though she couldn’t have been more than fifteen was standing behind the information counter. When I asked her where I might find the works of Tillman Carter, she pointed to the back of the store, the psychology section.
“He’s a doctor?”
“No, I don’t think so. An alienist is what they call him. You know, someone who studies criminals. Tries to figure out how they think.”
Interesting. I followed the girl’s pointing finger and headed to the rear of the store. I walked past the travel section, the true crime section, the zoology and cookbook sections, to arrive at the psychology area. It wasn’t big, so it was easy to find Tillman Carter’s works. I took down a copy of each one and went to a small, nearby table.
Carter had three titles—The Delinquent Son, The Criminal Family and Criminal Friendships. Slim volumes with nice titles, surprisingly poetic for books about killers, thieves and con artists of the worst kind. Carter had a solid, straightforward style of writing, too. In the preface to Delinquent Son, Carter said he believed society could reduce crime through prevention if it only understood what made people “turn bad” to begin with. He also thought we could predict who was likely to react in a criminal manner, what kinds of personalities indulged in crime once and which tended to be repeaters—repeat offenders, he called them. Interesting term.
What interested me most about Carter’s books, though, was the frontispiece. I was looking for the book Katie Jones said Carter told her he was writing when he came to see her. When had that visit taken place? These three books were done earlier. Delinquent Son came out in 1919, Criminal Family in 1921 and Criminal Friendships in 1923. The books appeared every two years, like clockwork. Criminal Friendships could’ve been the book Katie Jones was talking about, but I doubted it. The timing was too close. Powell died in October of ‘23. It was highly unlikely that Carter would’ve been able to do research, finish writing the book and have the publisher put it out within two months. Of course, there was an easy way to check. See if Criminal Friendships mentioned the Powell killing.
Several minutes of scrutiny disclosed that it didn’t.
I started to put back the books, then thought better of it. Carter’s books looked as though they could be good reading. Furthermore, it might be easier to talk to the man if I knew something about his methodology beforehand. I took the books up to the counter. The slip of a girl who’d been standing behind the information desk was now working the cash register.
“Say, you wouldn’t have a copy of his newer work, would you?”
She frowned. “What work?”
“Well, I see that he puts out a book every two years. The last title came out in ‘23. I’m assuming there was one last year, too.”
“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t think so. He put out Criminal Friendships and he hasn’t brought out another one since.”
Hmm, I thought. I wonder why.
Someone had been in my house. I sensed it the moment I walked in the door. At first, I couldn’t pinpoint the difference, but then it came to me. There was no Arctic breeze sweeping through the place. I climbed the stairs and looked up. Sure enough the skylight had been fixed. I was astounded. Sam was a miracle worker.
I called to thank him. “How’d you manage to get that done so fast?”
“Called in a couple of favors. It was no big deal. Now, tell me. What’re you up to?”
“Nothing.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I’m just planning on doing some reading.”
“Reading?”
“Yeah, reading. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“No, but …” He struggled to find words. “Lanie,” he said finally. “Just please stay out of trouble.”
“Why, of course I will. Why would you even feel the need to ask?”
Despite the repaired skylight, the house was cold. It would take time for it to warm up. I started a fire in the living room, then curled up on the sofa in a thick sweater under two blankets and began to read Carter’s books. With the exception of pauses to eat or use the bathroom, I consumed one book right after the other.
Compelling reading. Fascinating, actually. His idea was to explore relationships among criminals and analyze qualities that society would normally see as positive in a human relationship, i.e., loyalty, trust, cooperation, and teamwork, when applied to organized crime. He also wanted to see how these qualities could evaporate in ways that seemed inexplicable to outsiders, to explore and possibly understand how mobsters who’d covered each other’s backs for years, sometimes decades, could turn on one another and slaughter each other in a bloody frenzy.
It was two o’clock in the morning when I finished, edified, exhausted and very, very thoughtful.