The Porter Beer Murders

The Porter Beer Murders, By Eleanor Guerrero, CCN Senior Reporter

I heard a scream-or was it the wheels of an elevated train nearby screeching? Go home, long day, was my first thought. I was not looking for trouble. But I instinctively stopped, pulled over and parked. There was no one on the street. I promised myself I would only stay seconds. I’m pretty brave usually but I’m not stupid. I walked quickly to the corner by the street where the scream seemed to come from and peered cautiously out.

There was nothing moving. It was near dusk and a time to be away from this area of Manhattan. I pulled up my raincoat collar against the dampness. I am always cold in New York it seems. If this is spring, I can’t wait for summer. The dampness from the river just seeps into your bones. I heard a foghorn and looked towards the river. The lights of the George Washington Bridge twinkled. Everything is gray. Even the faces on the streets have no color. It’s like everyone lives in caves and no one smiles. Everyone’s too busy making money or trying to make money. Like me, I realized with a smile.

As I turned to go I saw something on the sidewalk glistening. Looking around again for any sign of movement anywhere, I quickly walked about 30 feet down the block at my own peril to take a closer look. You need to be careful about what things seem like here. It’s a city of illusions and greatness, a master class.

It did look like some kind of small diary or phone book. It appeared pretty clean and expensive, so I took a chance and picked it up. Maybe I could return it. I was not yet above my suburban roots where people didn’t step over bodies on the stairs and took time to care about each other and look them in the eye. I was learning quickly through experience to do it less or at least more cautiously. I was shocked at my own survival skills that were kicking in and fought constantly with my sense of morality.

I looked through the softback-it was a small, classy day planner, not a phone book. The words were neatly penned in and very clearly written in a feminine hand. There was an address at the beginning. It gave no name but an upper east side address in the 70’s somewhere. Even I knew that was an upscale locale but the number was smudged. So what on earth was this person doing in the meat district? This liberated time of 1974 allowed for a lot of wild times in this area but not for any lady I ever knew. I turned the book over-and there was a drop of blood on it! I dropped it. I looked down at it as if it were a dead rat. Then I realized, it could have been some kidnapping or worse and this could be the only proof. I picked up the book again and quickly walked back to my car, got in, locked the door and started the engine. I would figure it out at home-go to the police in the morning if necessary.

I got home and threw a pot pie in the microwave. Simple and filling for now. As I waited, I took the book out of the pocket of my coat that was thrown across the chair. This apartment is so tiny I thought, and not too safe but if this job works out, maybe I simply move to a better place. I started flipping the pages. Lots of times filled in, initials and little comments. I went to today’s date. There was a notation that said simply 626 11th Ave at 6 p.m. Brandy. Odd. So what was she doing further downtown? Intrigued, I decided to check it out after work tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find out something that makes it worthwhile bothering the cops.

The next day was nothing special. Lots of training hours, lots of time spent doodling in my notebook. I hate when they tell you things you already know. They’ll work me to death then spit me out. But by then, I’ll have made some substantial contacts-at least, that is the plan.

They actually let us out early so I had time to stop by 11th Avenue. I had to laugh when I got there. It looked like an ancient bar. The Landmark Tavern. Well, this is a neat place I should get to know, I figured. I went in. It had an old Irish pub atmosphere where I instantly felt at home. A huge dark wood bar along the right wall beckoned. I asked the balding, short but stocky old man behind it what kind of brandies they served. He glared at me. He turned and put one bottle on the counter. Nothing special. I ordered a Guinness on tap and decided to forget about it and just enjoy the atmosphere. I looked around but only two old guys in caps were at a back talking low over their shepherd pies (today’s special with a dish of vanilla pudding for dessert) and occasionally laughing. I thought about the move and how lonely it was without knowing anyone.

I pulled the book out again and flipped the pages. Nothing had any meaning to me. I saw something sticking out the back I hadn’t noticed, stuck in the jacket cuff. It was a tiny numbered cleaner tag with a piece of hair attached-a red hair. Was it hers? I tried to imagine the body attached and ordered a second beer. What do I do with this?

Just then, two uptown guys came in, suits, with big smiles. The tall blonde-haired man said to the bartender, “Where’s Brandy?” The bartender was suddenly animated. “She didn’t come in today-she stiffed me! I had promised the wife I’d take her shopping and she’s not happy. Don’t know why she’d do that-she knew it meant a lot to Helen to get the kids some clothes for Easter. She didn’t even call!” My head jerked up. Now it was getting interesting.