Backstab

by Elaine Viets

  I knew Ralph drank at Burt’s Bar when he was rehabbing in the neighborhood. Had Ralph been in Burt’s Bar the night Charlie walked in with Maria? Would he have recognized her? Ralph knew a lot of female impersonators.

  Burt couldn’t answer that question. But his wife, Dolores, might know. I called her and apologized for bothering her again, but she was happy to take a break from packing. “My back is killing me, Francesca. I’m getting too old for this moving business,” Dolores complained. But she sounded younger and livelier than she had since Burt’s death.

  “Was Ralph in the bar the night Charlie came in with the classy blonde?”

  “Are you still digging around in that? Francesca, I’m warning you, be careful. The answer is yes. Ralph was in that night, and most every night that week. He was working on the Utah house and plaster dust made him thirsty.”

  “Was Ralph in the bar the day Burt died?”

  “Yes,” said Dolores. “Ralph was sicker than a dog that day, and came in for a bowl of soup to go. Chicken soup. Supposed to be the best thing for colds, and ours is made from scratch. I looked out of the kitchen and saw him for a minute. The lunch-hour rush had started and I was back there cooking. Burt was up front taking orders and fixing drinks. I saw Burt and Ralph talking together, but I can’t tell you what about. Probably just ordering his soup.”

  That was the last piece to the puzzle. I had it all worked out now. But I needed to run my conclusions by someone. I called Uncle Bob’s to see if Marlene was there. “She’s working now, honey,” said Sandie, the manager. “If you stop by in an hour, at seven o’clock she can talk with you.”

  I did. This time, we went into the back staff room, where Babe, the Gazette’s gossip columnist, never went. Marlene turned on the coffeepot so we’d have plenty of fuel. She poured us two cups of fresh coffee, and we sat down at a table. I pulled out the Gender Bender program with Maria’s ad. This time, I covered up everything on the page but her picture. I was taking no chances. I didn’t want any distractions. “Ever see this person?” I asked.

  Marlene identified Maria right away. “That’s her. That’s the blond woman who was with Charlie.”

  “That’s what I needed to hear,” I said. “I think I’ve got it all figured out. Let me run it by you:

  “Charlie murdered Burt and Ralph, and someone else, too. You’ve pointed out Princess Di, the classy blond woman who came in with Charlie. Well, she was a he.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Marlene. “I’d never guess. Couldn’t tell by the Adam’s apple or the hands and feet. I guess because she was so delicate.”

  “She was so delicate she had a drag act called Maria Callous, the Ass with Class.” I showed her the rest of the ad.

  “Good thing I’m sitting down,” said Marlene. “I thought I was beyond being surprised in this business. Her bottom was a beaut. Not that I’m queer myself. Just checkin’ out the competition.”

  “Well, Charlie was going out with Maria—maybe only once or twice, from what I can figure out. Then he hands her over to his boss, Hadley, to advance his own career. Except right after that, he finds out Maria Callous is really a guy and kills her. Maria wasn’t his first female impersonator. Charlie already had a close encounter with BJ Betty. I told you about that one. And gossip says he nearly killed Betty when he found out.”

  “As much as he played around, you’d think Charlie could tell a girl from a boy. We had a few giggles over that one,” said Marlene.

  “So did everyone else. They’d have some real horselaughs if they found out Charlie made the same mistake twice. And even if they didn’t find out, think how Hadley would take the news.

  “That’s why Charlie killed Maria and dumped her body in a vacant lot. He could lose his career. He certainly lost his temper—and maybe even his mind—but that’s for the lawyers to figure out. He kills her before Hadley learns her secret. End of story. Nobody’s going looking for someone like Maria. Even when she dropped out of the pageant, nobody asked a lot of questions. People like her disappear all the time. They’re seen as shiftless and unstable. Then Charlie realizes Burt saw them together at the bar. Burt brags to his rehabbing customer, Ralph, that an important editor from the Gazette brought in a classy-looking blonde.”

  “Burt didn’t brag about his customers,” said Marlene.

  “Okay. Burt mentions it to Ralph.”

  “He might do that.”

  “Ralph realizes the classy blonde is Maria Callous—the female impersonator who was murdered. He goes to Burt’s Bar and they discuss what to do about it. Maybe Burt has some friend in the police department they can run their suspicions past. But before they can act, Charlie kills Burt and then Ralph. Now no one can connect her to him.

  “It makes sense that Charlie went running into Hadley’s office with the photos from the Miss American Gender Bender Pageant and whipped Hadley into a smut-crushing frenzy. I thought he was just causing trouble. But Charlie couldn’t risk any more public exposure of the pageant or people might ask what happened to Maria Callous—and the questions might lead to Charlie, since he’d been seen with her.”

  “Didn’t Hadley date her, too?”

  “I think so. But he’s not a hands-on editor.”

  “You know these people better than I do,” said Marlene. “Everything you said makes sense to me. Except for one thing: How did Charlie find out that Maria was a man? Did someone tell him? Or show him a pageant program? You ought to answer that question first.”

  “We may never know the answer to that,” I said. “Only Charlie can answer that, and why would he tell me?”

  “Shouldn’t you at least try?” said Marlene. “I think it’s important. And maybe other people had a reason to kill Maria. Why don’t you run your information past someone who would know? Detective Mark Mayhew is in here most mornings. You can ask him.”

  “Oh, no. When I first mentioned to Mark that I thought Ralph and Burt were murdered, he said I was crazy. Now that I’ve figured everything out, he’ll come in and take the credit. Well, he’s not getting the glory. This is my story.”

  “This is your career. If Charlie isn’t guilty of murder, he’ll kill that.”

  “He’s guilty, Marlene. I’ll stake my life on it.”

  “You may have to,” she said. “How are you going to break the news that you know about these murders? We’re talking triple murder here. Will you catch Charlie after work and say, ‘By the way, boss, is it true you offed three people?’ That would give him a good reason to make it four.”

  “Marlene, I’m not going to confront Charlie on my own. I’ll go into the managing editor and present the whole case. Hadley will call in the company lawyers and get all the advice he needs. They’ll do the dirty work and I’ll get the credit. God, Marlene, this is so good, I can’t believe it. I’ve finally nailed the little creep. Of course, it will be embarrassing to the Gazette to have a murdering ‘Family’ section editor, but the paper will weather it. What a scoop! It’s mine, all mine, and it’s a big one. This is a media Watergate. This is talk-show time. This is book contract time. This is my Pulitzer prize, and I’m not sharing it with anyone.

  “It’s a story with reader appeal, too. It isn’t like Whitewater, where nobody can figure out what happened and if they can, they don’t care. Everyone will identify with this story. Everybody hates the boss. Most workers know the person in charge is a mean screwup. But a boss who kills people! Readers will love it. The papers will walk off the newsstands.”

  “They do, anyway,” said Marlene. “Yesterday, somebody put a quarter in the box outside the restaurant and helped themselves to fifteen papers.”

  “I’ve always wanted to do that,” I said. “But I refrain, being in the business and all.”

  “Francesca,” said Marlene, “I don’t want to pour cold water on your acceptance speech for the Pulitzer prize, but what makes you think the Gazette will even publish this story? It’s not going to make the paper look real good.”

  “They’ll
have to run it. They can’t let TV scoop them. Besides, this is a national story. A newspaper with a killer editor! God, it’s so good. I can’t wait.”

  “So when are you going to commit this act of journalism? Are you going to tell Lyle first? Or that editor you like so much, who’s helped you before, what’s her name—Georgia? Shouldn’t you at least run your plan past them?”

  “I promise I’ll try to talk with them both today,” I said. I promised because I knew Georgia was taking a few days off, and Lyle was in classes until late tonight. Both of them would try to stop me, but I knew they’d be proud of me once I succeeded. And I would succeed.

  “I’ll tell Hadley tonight, before I go to the police. And then I’ll write my prizewinning story.”

  Hadley went home around six thirty or seven most nights. But when he had to stay downtown for some big event, he always stopped by to look at the final edition, which came out about eleven thirty. Tonight was the annual Old Sports Dinner, a sentimental favorite for city baseball fans. By the time they got through all the beer, all the awards and teary speeches, Hadley wouldn’t get back to the newsroom until almost twelve thirty.

  I sat around at my desk at the CG and worked on Tuesday’s column on gun control. Our department had emptied out hours before. It was so quiet, I finished writing the gun column and had time to answer some mail. I was nervous, excited, and full of energy. My mind and my fingers moved quicker than usual. Only the clock was slow. By twelve twenty-five, most of the newsroom staff had gone home and the rest seemed to be at lunch, or whatever meal night-shift workers ate at that hour. Hadley was in his office, his suit jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. I decided now was the best time to talk. His door was open, but I knocked anyway.

  “Come in, Francesca,” he said cheerfully.

  He was in a good end-of-the-day mood. His blue bow tie looked crisply tied, and I swear the man was wearing suspenders. All he needed to complete the image of an old-style newsman was a green eyeshade. He did have a green-shaded banker’s lamp on his desk. It was the only light on in the room, and it made the place look more like a museum than ever.

  In the shadows, I could see the headlines for the ancient newspapers. One was about the Battle of the Marne. Behind his desk were other journalism artifacts: Hadley’s old California job case, the wooden recesses filled with Caslon type. The pica stick. The copy spike on its ornate green metal base. When did copy spikes disappear from newsrooms? When computers came in? I remembered them at the Gazette offices when I first started, but that was BC—before computers. In those days, editors hung strings of long wire-service stories on those spikes. The stories trailed over the sides of the desks, like long hair. An editor told me copy spikes disappeared when some federal agency outlawed them because they were too dangerous. I wondered if anyone had ever lost an eye on one. Hadley’s spike looked deadly.

  “I’m afraid I’m not here with good news, Mr. Harris,” I said. Hadley listened intently while I told him what I’d found out. I told him about the classy female impersonator, Maria Callous, and how her dead ass had been found in a vacant lot. I told him how she was supposed to be in the Miss American Gender Bender Pageant. I told him that my friend, Ralph, and my reliable city source, Burt, were dead and I thought it was because they knew about Maria’s death. Hadley looked stunned, as I knew he would. He didn’t say a word as I kept talking. I built my case slowly and carefully. I told him about the people who identified Maria’s picture, about the pocket knife, and about the message on the answering machine. So far, I’d told him just the facts, not the killer’s name. I thought Hadley would accept it better if I presented the case as unemotionally as possible. I also thought I wouldn’t mention that Hadley might have gone out—or have wanted to go out—with Maria.

  “I believe, Mr. Harris, that the killer is a straight male who was horrified by the sudden knowledge that he was dating a female impersonator, instead of a real female. I think it made the poor man crazy. I believe he strangled Maria, then killed two more people, Ralph and Burt, because he thought they could connect her to him. I’m sorry to say”—actually I wasn’t sorry at all, but I thought a couple of crocodile tears were called for—“that the killer is a City Gazette editor. That’s why I came to you.”

  Now I was getting to the good part. I was just about to tell Hadley that the killer was Charlie. I knew Hadley would take it hard. Charlie was his boy.

  Hadley’s shoulders were slumped as if he expected the blow. His face grew grave and thoughtful. The scalp under his thinning hair reddened. Hadley turned his back to me and stared at his newspaper museum, as if for comfort, or inspiration. He rubbed the smooth wood of the California job case and touched the pica stick and ran his hands along the copy spike. I never realized how much that copy spike looked like an ice pick on a flat base. God, it was lethal looking.

  Then Hadley grabbed the copy spike and went straight for me. He never said a word. Holy shit! Hadley was aiming straight for my eye. I put my arm up. It saved my face, but Hadley took a long stab at my arm. It ripped my brown-striped Donna Karan jacket from wrist to elbow in a long, vicious slice. I watched the blood ooze out of the cut. It stung.

  “Hadley!” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”

  But all of a sudden I knew. He was trying to kill me. The killer was a City Gazette editor. But it wasn’t Charlie. It was Hadley. Hadley was the man whose career would be ruined if word got out that he’d been stepping out with a female impersonator. Mr. Morality with Maria Callous, the Ass with Class. He’d be a laughingstock.

  He started speaking, slowly and softly. “Francesca,” he said, “you have no respect for Family Values. None. No respect. I told you and I told you. I am tired of your smut.” Now he was almost shrieking his rage. “Smut! Smut! Smut must be eliminated!” I was still standing there, stunned, blood running down my right arm, my left hand leaning against the desk, when Hadley struck again. He rammed the copy spike right into my hand, in the web between my thumb and forefinger. Oddly, it didn’t hurt. Until he pulled the spike out and hit me upside the head with the base. That opened a cut in my head—I could feel something warm oozing in my hair. It also knocked some sense into me. I started moving, and fast.

  “This hurts me more than it hurts you,” he said in a soft, insinuating whisper, but I doubted that. “You won’t obey me, Francesca. Why won’t you obey me? You made me do this. It’s all your fault. I didn’t want to hurt you. You made me.”

  I made myself pick up a Steuben glass ashtray from his desk, a gift of the Jaycees, and fling it at his head. It bounced off his balding skull with a thunk that might have made me laugh under other circumstances. The ashtray stopped him. I saw blood on his forehead, but I didn’t take long to look.

  Hadley shook off the blow and slashed at me again with the spike. He missed. I ran out the door and down Rotten Row, Hadley behind me. Where was everybody? Why weren’t any editors working late tonight? I tried a couple of office doors. Maybe I could get into an office and call 911. Hadley moved surprisingly fast, making strange noises, something between a grunt and a growl. He kept saying, “You made me do this. You made me. It’s not my fault.”

  Why didn’t anyone hear him? Why didn’t anyone see us? Jesus, he was fast. He was close enough to slash again. Hadley put a rip in the back of my jacket, but he didn’t get me. More office doors. All locked. Got to get help. Got to get away. Finally, one was open. It was the morgue. Good. Maybe Fred was in.

  But he wasn’t. He was on lunch break. He had his little sign out on his desk. I stopped just a second, but Hadley was behind me, overturning the bookcase behind Fred’s desk. The heavy case toppled in my direction. As I jumped out of the way, fat reference books spilled on the floor in a dusty heap. They missed me, but Hadley lost his copy spike. It slipped from his hand and went bouncing down the aisle past me. As he ran toward it, I opened a file drawer and got him right in the knee. I’d been aiming higher, but a bruised knee stopped him well enough. He fell, landing on the floor on
all fours. I grabbed Fred’s copy scissors, ten inches long and sword-sharp, and stabbed Hadley in the closest hand, his left one. The blade went in. It felt like I was cutting chicken.

  “You hurt me,” he said, like a surprised child.

  “I hope so,” I wheezed. There was no point in being tactful now.

  Hadley sat up with a grunt of pain and pulled the scissors out of his hand. God. I was sick. There was blood everywhere now, and some of it was mine. I could hardly see from the blood running down my face. My hands were sticky and slippery. Hadley was slowing down, too.

  Then Hadley grabbed the scissors with his good hand and tried to slash me with them. I hit him in the head with Fred’s phone, hard, hard enough to crack it. He sat there dazed, while I ran back to the rolling files. They were a Hadley special. The staff hates those rolling files, but Hadley wouldn’t let the morgue expand into a larger space. He wanted the space for his office.

  The rolling files are beige metal shelves that go up to the ceiling. They are set on tracks. The shelf units roll back and forth. Because they move, you can store eight aisles of files in the space of four. But you have to move one row of shelves to get to another. The shelves are moved by a big wheel, about the size of a steering wheel, on the side of the unit. It takes surprisingly little strength to get the shelves to start closing. Librarians are rarely built like Arnold Schwarzenegger. In fact, one of the selling points of the shelves is how easy it is to move something that big. Amazing. Also, amazingly inconvenient. The whole unit is about as big as an Olympic-sized pool. Stored inside are all the CG photos and old news stories that haven’t been transferred to the computer.

  The rolling shelves are a drag and a time waster. The library staff is constantly tripping over the metal tracks. One librarian was almost trapped in the rolling shelves when somebody started turning the wheel. Only her anguished squeals kept her from getting squished.

  I slipped into one aisle, PHOTOS AR-CZ. Hadley was following, his walk slow and lumbering. But he was waving those sharp scissors with determination. The grunt had turned into a wheeze, and that sound was somehow scarier. As Hadley hobbled down the aisle, I slipped out the back of the rolling files, and found the wheel. Then I began rolling the shelves together, trapping Hadley.