I finally wound up talking to a man named Louis Leeds who told me, after a certain amount of fencing, that Byron Wayne Leopold had indeed been an Illinois Sentinel Life policyholder, that the face amount of the policy had been $75,000, and that ownership of the policy had been transferred on such and such a date to a Mr. William Havemeyer of Lakewood, Ohio.
“Not Texas,” I said.
No, he said, not Texas. Lakewood was in Ohio, and he wouldn’t swear to it but it seemed to him that it was, a suburb of Cleveland. The lake would be Erie, he said.
“And the wood?”
“I beg your pardon? Oh, the wood! Very funny. I suppose the wood would be oak or maple. Or maybe knotty pine, ha ha ha.”
Ha ha ha. Had the claim been processed? It had. And had a check been issued to Mr. Havemeyer?
“Well, he’s named as the beneficiary, so we could hardly have paid the money to anyone else. And the policy has been retired and noted as paid in full.”
I asked if Mr. Havemeyer was the beneficiary of any other policies. There was a pause, and he said he would have no way of knowing that.
“Ask your computer,” I said. “I bet it knows. Feed it the name of William Havemeyer and see what it comes up with.”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because that would be confidential. Our records are by no means public information.”
I drew a breath. “William Havemeyer was the beneficiary of Byron Leopold’s insurance. He wasn’t a friend or a relative of the insured. Leopold sold him the policy.”
“That’s called a viatical transaction,” he said. “It’s perfectly legal. We don’t entirely approve of them, but in most states the owner of an unencumbered insurance policy has the legal right to transfer ownership in return for a financial consideration.”
He talked about the company’s requirement that prior beneficiaries be notified, and such complicating circumstances as insurance coverage stipulated in a divorce settlement. “But I don’t believe any of that applies in the present circumstance,” he said.
“Suppose William Havemeyer has participated in more than one viatical transaction.”
“It strikes me as an unpleasant way to seek a return on capital,” he said, “but there’s nothing illegal about it.”
“I understand. Suppose other persons of whose insurance he was the beneficiary also died violently.”
There was a pause almost worthy of Gary down in Arlington. Then, slowly, he said, “Do you have reason to believe...”
“I’d like to rule it out,” I told him. “And I should think you’d like to rule it out yourself. I understand there’s an ethical line here, but it’s certainly not unethical for you to check your records. After you’ve done that, you can decide whether or not to share your findings with me.”
I had to repeat that a couple of times, but eventually he decided it was safe to ask his computer for information, since I wasn’t there to peek over his shoulder at the screen. He put me on hold, and I listened to elevator music interrupted at all-too-brief intervals with plugs for the peace of mind provided by coverage from Illinois Sentinel Life.
He came back right in the middle of one such announcement. Mr. William Havemeyer, he was able to assure me, not without a tone of triumph, was known to Illinois Sentinel Life solely as the beneficiary of the late Byron Wayne Leopold. He was not insured himself by the company, nor was he either the policyholder or the beneficiary of any other ISL coverage.
“I feel it’s all right for me to tell you this,” he said, “because I’m not actually imparting any data. I’m simply confirming the absence of such data.”
That was true enough, and I thanked him and let it go at that. I didn’t see any point in telling him that a failure to do as he had done would have confirmed the opposite; if he’d come back and refused to tell me anything, he’d have been telling me quite a bit.
Always the beautiful question...
“I don’t get it,” I told Elaine.
“The appeal of viatical transactions? It’s not hard to understand from a dollars-and-cents standpoint.” She jotted down numbers on a pad. “The big plunger in Lakewood paid out just over fifty-six thousand, and in less than a year he collected on a seventy-five-thousand-dollar policy. What kind of return is that?” More numbers. “Almost forty percent. Can that be right? Yes, it can, and actually it’s more than that, because he didn’t have to wait the full year.”
“He’d have paid more than fifty-six grand,” I pointed out. “Viaticom had to make something for their troubles. They’re the ones who put the whole thing together. My guess is that they must have taken a minimum of five thousand dollars off the top before they wrote out their check to Byron.”
“So if Mr. Lakewood—”
“Mr. Havemeyer.”
“If he paid sixty and got back seventy-five that’s a return of what, twenty-five percent per annum? And he got it in less than an annum, and even if he’d waited a full two annums that’s still better than the banks give you.”
“Would you invest in something like this?”
“No.”
“It didn’t take you long to answer that one.”
“Well, I don’t have any moral objection to it,” she said. “And the men at the hospice pointed out that it’s a real boon to the people with AIDS. So I think it’s a good thing that other people are doing it. But it turns my stomach.”
“The idea of sitting around and waiting for somebody to die.”
She nodded. “And trying not to be irritated when they go on living, and trying not to jump for joy when they die. I mean, screw all that. Or don’t you agree?”
“No, I agree completely.”
“It may be a great investment,” she said, “but not for me. The higher the return, the worse I’d feel about the whole thing. I think I’ll stick to real estate. And thrift-shop art.”
“I’m with you,” I said. “But that’s not the part I don’t get. Say you’re Havemeyer.”
“Okay. I’m Havemeyer.”
“You’ve bought a policy on a dying man. You paid, round numbers, sixty thousand dollars. According to medical science, you’ve got a max of two years to wait before you collect seventy-five thousand.”
“So?”
“Why rush things? Why would you come to New York and shoot down a man on a park bench? Why go through that to get the money a few months sooner, or even a whole year sooner?”
“Unless you needed the money right away...”
“It still doesn’t make sense. If you need cash that urgently, the policy’s an asset. There must be a way you can borrow against it, or sell it to one of Viaticom’s other investors. And if you just want to increase your profit, well, I can’t see it as a motive for the taking of a human life. You’re still getting the same seventy-five grand. You’re just getting it a little earlier than you would otherwise.”
“Time is money.”
“Yes, but it’s not that much money. And people who want fast money bad enough to kill for it aren’t investing in insurance policies, anyway. They’re out there robbing banks or dealing coke.”
“Maybe Havemeyer didn’t do it.”
I shook my head. “It can’t be a coincidence,” I said. “He just looks too good for it. What do we know about the murder? It was an amateur effort committed by a stranger who knew the name of his victim and said it out loud to confirm his identity before shooting him. That sounds to me like a perfect fit. There’s even a motive.”
“Money, you mean.”
“Right. And all along this case felt to me like one with a financial motive.”
“Your dream,” she said. “Remember? Too much money.’”
“Uh-huh. And now it’s turned on its head, because as a motive it strikes me as too little money. It’s just not enough to kill for.” She started to say something and I held up a hand to cut her off. “I know, people get killed every day for chump change. Two guys buy a bottle of Night Train and argue over the change, and one stabs the other. A mugger shoots a guy who was trying to hang on to his wallet and takes five dollars off the corpse. But that’s different. The people who commit crimes like that don’t have sixty thousand dollars to invest. They don’t live in suburbs in the Midwest and fly to New York to kill strangers.”