Chapter Nine
As McGill walked swiftly down the street toward the orchestra's rehearsal hall, he thought about how quickly and dramatically the situation had changed. A few days ago he had been investigating a minor theft. Now he was investigating a ruthless murder of a well-known and beloved musician.
As he drew closer to the building, he could see a small group of people huddled in front of it, carrying signs and apparently walking in circles in front of the large double doors that led into the building. Walking up to the man who seemed to be the leader of the small group, he tapped him on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," said McGill, "but do you mind telling me who you are and what you and your group are doing her?"
The man, dressed in an oversized black trench coat, stared at him for a few seconds. "My name is Lemense… Ashton Lemense. And as far as what we’re doing here, it ought to be pretty obvious" he said, pointing to the sign he held, which read "No Free Ride for the Philharmonic."
McGill nodded. “I see your sign, Mr. Lemense, but I have no idea what it means.”
“It means that this orchestra, as well as its even richer big brother, is being given huge tax breaks, grants and subsidies by this city when we can't even afford to provide a basic subsistence level for all its citizens. Anybody who cares a thing about this city ought to know that all of that money should go to the people….not some elitist organization that produces a product that no one really wants.”
“So you're suggesting that the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra is responsible for all the city’s problems because they accepted a handful of small grants?”
“They’re not single-handedly responsible, of course. It's just one of many cultural institutions that are coddled by our city, given special or preferential treatment while there are people starving.”
“Okay,” said McGill, "if that's the way you see the world, I'm certainly not going to try to talk you out of it, but in case you haven't heard, there has been a murder committed on these premises and I think it's a pretty safe bet to say that most of the people who work in this building are in shock or at the very least very upset. I don’t think your signs are helping the matter much.”
“So?” said Lemense indignantly. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for these over-bloated elitists? Their big-time conductor gets shot, so what? They probably won’t even cancel the rest of their concert season. They’ll probably just use this guy’s death to raise more money. Somehow this damn orchestra will end up even richer while more people starve in the streets.”
“I see” said McGill. “And I suppose you can account for your activities last night?”
“And what business is that of yours?”
McGill pulled out his badge. “I’m Detective McGill and I’m one of the people investigating the death. So if you don’t mind…”
“Yes, Detective, as a matter of fact I can account for my whereabouts last night. I was home with my wife and a group of friends. I can provide you with names and addresses if you’d like.”
“Very helpful of you. And where will I be able to get in touch you?”
“Here,” he said, grabbing a card from his wallet. “Name, address and phone number all right there. The address is in case you might want to make a donation.”
McGill forced a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Minutes later, McGill was sitting in Linda Eggert’s office with the secretary trying to communicate between choking sobs.
“This is just totally impossible to believe,” she said, dabbing her mouth with a handkerchief. “Just totally impossible. Why would this happen? And how could it happen? I just don’t know where to start, Detective McGill. It’s all so absolutely unbelievable…”
McGill nodded sympathetically. “I understand it must be a terrible shock, Ms. Eggert, but it’s important that I gather as much information as I can as quickly as possible. So please tell me again—did you see Mr. Hauptmann leave the reception?”
“No, I mean at one point I guess I realized he was gone, but I really don’t know when it was. Possibly 9:30? I really don’t know.”
“And were you surprised that he left?”
“Oh no, not at all. He was an older gentleman of course…although he could show remarkable energy when he was doing something he liked to do. He never seemed to tire when he was conducting, But receptions…no… he had little interest in the receptions. Perhaps when he was younger…still living in Germany. But not in recent years, not in the five years I’ve been working here.”
“I see. So apparently he left the reception at around 9:30 and went up two flights of stairs to his office. But no one saw him go up there.”
“Maybe someone else did, I suppose. But most people would have assumed that he was just tired and was going back to his apartment. It’s only a couple of blocks away.”
“So even if someone noticed that he was leaving the reception—by himself—no one would have gotten particularly concerned?”
“No. Even though Maestro Hauptmann was social enough in some situations, he wasn’t always looking for company. It would not be unusual for him to simply disappear when he became bored and not necessarily tell anyone where he was going.”
“So I understand. Now, can you tell me if there was anything unusual about the reception? Were you able to observe if Hauptmann seemed to be angry or agitated about anything?”
“I only spoke with him early in the evening—before the speeches started—but he already seemed bored to me…bored and restless.”
“Restless? Was that unusual?”
“No, far from it. I told you earlier that he was not the type to enjoy receptions. He wasn’t one for idle chit-chat.”
“I see, so you saw nothing during the reception to suggest that he was angry or worried?”
“Not a thing. As far as I could see, he made the rounds as usual, chatting with members of the orchestra, the Board, and one or two of the donors. I think he probably checked in with the business manager, Mr. Clemens, but all that would have been perfectly normal at this sort of reception.”
“Okay, thank you. That’s helpful. I do have a couple of other questions, though. Is there anything you can tell me about the picketers out there today? A Mr. Lemense and company?”
“Yes, those obnoxious pests. They’ve been here before, at least a half a dozen times, starting last year. I’m shocked that they have the gall to show up now that Maestro Hauptmann’s been murdered.”
“Really? Have they expressed some antagonism toward him in the past?”
“They seem to be generally antagonistic to anyone who has anything to do with the orchestra. They’re apparently convinced that we’re the cause of all the social ills in Philadelphia.”
“Just this orchestra?”
“Well, no….they’ve picketed other arts organizations as well, and at least a couple of museums. Any organization that has accepted a grant—even the smallest of grants—from the city.”
“I see. Have they generally behaved themselves out there?”
“We’ve called the police on them at least twice, but apparently they’re within their rights to harass us.”
“What sort of harassment?”
“Well, nothing really physical, I guess. If you try to enter the front door while they’re around, they try to intimidate you a little…you know…step in front of you and make you go around them. But they’ve never really laid their hands on anybody that I know of.”
“And they’ve never threatened to escalate their activities? Become more belligerent?”
“No. Frankly, I think they’re all talk. Surely they know that their stupid little demonstrations aren’t really accomplishing anything. For the most part we just ignore them. Our Board of Directors chair—Mr. Carter—seems more disturbed by them than anyone else. He came to the office once when those people were picketing and seemed outraged by it.”
“But you don’t see the protesters as really representing a threat, is that correct? And Mr. Haup
tmann was never directly threatened?”
“Oh no! Nothing like that,” cried Eggert. “I could be wrong, but whoever did this horrible thing…well, I just can’t believe the protesters had anything to do with it.”