“To see if he was going to room with anybody who was on the plane,” Delaney said.
“You got it. That’s in addition to the standard routine: talk to neighbors, talk to fellow priests, retrace victim’s last steps. All that. Understand?”
“Sure. Got it.”
“And could be some beat patrolman will pick up something from a snitch, some talk about one faggot jilting another.”
“Sure, Captain.”
“Anything you hear, you report to detectives. Anything. At the same time, we don’t let out everything we know. Any reporters try to talk to you about this, you tell ’em to call me. I’ll decide what they get. Understand?”
“Right, Captain.”
“Good. Now let’s get out of here and let the rubber-glove guys do their thing.”
Gratefully, Delaney followed Detective Captain McNulty up the basement stairs. McNulty stopped in the kitchen to confer with a couple of subordinates. Delaney stood to one side and saw two other detectives in the priest’s bedroom.
“Look at these,” one of the detectives said, pointing to the golf clubs. “Brand-new set of Hogans. Betcha they never been used. Damn, what a waste.”
“You don’t need good clubs, the way you play,” the other detective said.
“Ain’t that the truth.”
McNulty finished giving instructions and led Delaney out of the house to the clean, cold air.
“How’s your father, Delaney?” McNulty said just before getting into his car.
“Fine, Captain. Just fine.”
“Good. Say hello for me.” The captain opened his car door, then paused for a moment. “You’re too young to remember Orville Smalley. He was coroner a long time. Well, he used to chew tobacco, see. And whenever he had a real stinker, like this one, he used to swallow his tobacco plug to keep from getting sick.”
Delaney was tired when he changed into his civvies at the end of his shift. He was still wired up from the excitement of the corpse in the basement, and he had endured several jokes from older cops who knew that it had been his first body scene. Delaney had taken the jokes good-naturedly, buoyed by the memory of McNulty’s friendly words.
Delaney did want to be a detective someday, and McNulty might be able to help. Have to talk to the old man about it, Delaney thought. Maybe stop in and see him tonight. Have a few beers.
The thought of a few beers was an inviting one, even though Delaney knew they might put him to sleep early: he hadn’t had anything to eat after the Danish and coffee in the morning.
“Delaney,” the desk sergeant said as Delaney came out of the patrolmen’s locker room. “Stop at detectives’ and see McNulty before you leave.”
The detective captain was sitting at his desk, wearing half-rim glasses and thumbing through papers.
“Captain,” Delaney said.
McNulty didn’t smile, didn’t look up right away, and Delaney smelled whiskey.
“You got any good snitches yet, Delaney?” the captain said at last.
“One or two, Captain. I’ve only been on the force—”
“I know, I know. Listen, we don’t want to overlook any possibilities in this priest thing, you know? So you got any snitches, you lean on ’em.”
“Sure, Captain.”
“You hear anything about burglaries in the university area, you pass ’em on pronto.”
“Burglaries?” Delaney was puzzled. “Captain, in the basement, I thought you said—”
McNulty cut him off with a steel stare over the top of his half-rim glasses.
“We overlook no possibilities, Delaney. There’s been break-ins before in the university area. You know that.”
“I know that, Captain. But—” Just in time, Delaney was saved by a bit of advice he remembered from his father: know when to shut up.
“We overlook no possibilities,” the captain repeated. “And we don’t spread rumors. Rumors spread enough by themselves. You’ll learn that, if you haven’t already.”
Delaney said nothing; he realized he was standing at attention.
“We don’t spread rumors,” McNulty said, looking down at his papers. “I don’t want anyone spreading rumors about the condition of that priest’s body. Understand?”
“Rumors, Captain?”
“Rumors,” the captain said, again fixing Delaney with a stare. “We don’t spread any rumors about the priest’s private parts being exposed. We say nothing about that. Understand?”
Not for nothing was he a cop’s son. Delaney knew the answer. “Understood, Captain.”
“Good. That’s all.”
Delaney turned to go. He was hurt and bewildered and couldn’t wait to get out of the stationhouse. He would talk to his father.
“This is a Catholic town, Delaney,” the captain said in farewell.
Five
PRIEST FOUND SLAIN
IN BASEMENT OF
DIOCESE-OWNED HOUSE
By Ed Sperl
A young priest was found battered to death with a golf club yesterday in the basement of a diocese-owned house near the Ambrose Parkway.
The victim, the Reverend John Barrow, was discovered slumped on the dirt floor of a basement room where the priest had erected a golf target, the police said.
Father Barrow, 26, had been dead about two weeks, according to the medical examiner’s office.
Detectives said the walls of the basement room were spattered with blood. The victim’s head had been battered severely with the club, which was found lodged in the corpse’s skull.
Homicide detectives were tight-lipped about the case, though there were hushed whispers at police headquarters that even hardened investigators were shocked at the savagery of the crime.
Bishop Armand J. Ciccarelli said he was “shocked and deeply saddened” by the murder. The bishop described Father Barrow, a native of Sharon, Pa., who came to the diocese only last autumn, as a “vibrant and dedicated servant of the Lord who will be sorely missed.”
Detective Chief Raymond McNulty said there were no suspects so far, but that “all available manpower” would be pressed into service …
A diocese spokesman said Father Barrow enjoyed the company of young people, and that his duties included teaching Confraternity of Christian Doctrine classes to diocese teenagers.
The spokesman said Father Barrow often stopped at taverns in the university district. “Father John liked nothing better than to talk to young people, for he understood and shared their vigor, idealism and desire for a world of peace,” the spokesman said …
Six
Early spring, 1971
Marlee West found a parking spot around the corner from the Silver Swine and got out of her rusting Volkswagen Beetle while balancing the gifts precariously in her arms. She almost dropped one, but she managed to hold on and kicked the door shut.
At least the sidewalks weren’t slippery; Bessemer was enjoying a mild spell, and the steady drizzle that rinsed her cheeks was not too much of a price for the warmth.
She was the first to arrive. Only a couple of strangers—ham-faced afternoon drinkers—were at the bar.
A tall bartender came up to her, smiling. “You brought me some presents,” he said. Coal-black hair, linebacker build—a hunk, Marlee conceded.
“No way,” she said, setting a couple of them on the bar. She smiled and laughed, then was self-conscious because she felt her upper lip sticking to her teeth. When she smiled, the lip often stuck, right in the area of her childhood surgical scar.
“We set things up in the back room,” the bartender said. “Meatballs, rings, fries—we’ll even throw in some cheese and crackers on the house.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you.”
“Why not? Newspaper people drink a lot when they have a farewell party.”
“That’s true. And we’ve had a lot of farewells lately.”
“Bigger and better things and all that. Here, let me give you a hand.”
The bartender took the three heaviest packa
ges from her arms, lightly brushing her right breast with the back of his hand as he did. No, he had not done it on purpose, Marlee decided. She didn’t mind in any event.
She followed him past the end of the long bar, through a hallway into the back room. The room had booths on all sides and two tables—a large one for food, a smaller one where Marlee and the bartender set the gifts.
“So, you’re a little early,” the bartender said.
“I’m sort of the unofficial greeter.”
“Well, you look well suited for it. C’mon, the first beer is on me.”
“I’ll make a stop first and then take you up on your offer.”
In the women’s room, Marlee stared deep into the mirror and tried to be happy with what she saw. She couldn’t quite do it. Her light brown hair was too wavy and uncooperative in the damp weather, and her brown eyes, while huge and luminous, betrayed her shyness. Marlee took the jar of Vaseline from her purse and rubbed some on her teeth. Lipstick next.
There, the best she could do. The lipstick concealed most of the scar from the birth defect and the operation that had only partly succeeded, and the Vaseline kept her lip from sticking to her teeth. Chin up, Marlee. At least your nose isn’t too bad.
The bartender smiled at her and nodded toward a stool in front of a foam-topped stein. Marlee smiled her thanks, felt a sting of disappointment that the bartender was engaged in shoulders-hunched man talk with a customer.
Marlee let her raincoat slide off her shoulders and took a sip of her beer. She studied the drizzle drops on the front window. Yes, she could understand why people didn’t stay in Bessemer. If you weren’t born and raised here, and you don’t like winter …
Marlee was twenty-five and had been at the Gazette for three and a half years. It seemed to her that there were mostly two kinds of people at the Gazette: older people who were pleasant, ordinary, and would die there, and young people, some not very pleasant but some better than ordinary, who would not. Well, who was to say she had to belong to either group?
She had gone out with a few guys who had left the Gazette, promising to write her from Chicago or Pittsburgh or Atlanta or wherever their dreams had carried them. Some had even kept their promises and written to her, but not for long. Hey, their loss.
She had never gone out with Grant Siebert, who was the honoree of this farewell party. She would have, if he had asked her. Sometimes she suspected that Grant Siebert was more shy than he let on.
Grant Siebert probably did not think she was very smart or talented. He likely thought he was better than she was because he was a hard-news reporter with a real knack for finding the facts, or the jugular. And she was a feature writer, assigned to what the Gazette labeled “women’s news.” God, she hated that label; maybe she could get it changed someday.
Well, she might not be a terrific hard-news reporter, but she damn well was interested in writing about real people and real problems. And yes, that often meant women’s issues. There was a lot of fertile ground there, especially in Bessemer.
She had to laugh at herself. Here she was, sitting on a barstool, feeling her feminist juices heating up her blood and making her angry—and all the while hoping the sexy bartender would give her the time of day. And feeling slightly sad that Grant Siebert had never asked her out.
Damn, it was tough sometimes trying to figure out what you wanted and how to get it.
“Care for another?” The bartending hunk had returned.
“Sure. Thanks.” She slid a dollar bill across the bar.
“You write for the Gazette?”
“Sure do.”
“What do you write?”
“I write for the women’s section.”
“Oh, you mean like recipes and stuff.”
A moment of truth: should she indicate her irritation with his chauvinism or be tactful and pleasant? “Not just recipes. I try to get into other issues.”
The bartender shrugged, rang up her drink charge, and walked away.
The door opened and in walked Will Shafer, shaking drizzle from a bright yellow windbreaker.
“Hi,” Marlee said as their eyes met.
“Oh, hi. We’re the first ones?”
“Yep.”
Awkward silence. Up to me to fill it, she thought. “New jacket?” she said.
“Christmas present from my mom. I haven’t worn it till today. She likes bright colors more than I do.”
Will seemed stiff and ill at ease, as usual. “Well,” she said, “you can always get a job as a crossing guard.”
That made him laugh, a little.
God, Marlee thought, he’s such a tight-ass Boy Scout. Oops, Marlee thought, do I detect the start of a beard? Can this be?
Will Shafer ordered a beer, took a big gulp, self-consciously wiped foam from his lips.
“So,” Marlee said, “whiskers come to Bessemer. How does your mom like the beard idea?”
“She doesn’t.”
“Figures. Moms never do. All the more reason to grow it.” Marlee had to feel a little sorry for Will: facial hair had indeed come to Bessemer, to the extent that young men looked odd if they didn’t have a beard or mustache or muttonchop sideburns or some combination of those. Will was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.
“I, um, just wanted to see how it would look, you know?” Will said.
“Looks fine. How is your mom?”
“Okay. She keeps busy.” Will Shafer bit off a big gulp of beer.
No more talk about his mom, Marlee thought. “The guest of honor better not be late for his own party,” she said.
“Mmmm.”
She watched him drain his glass and nod to the bartender for another beer. After the bartender walked away, Will Shafer made a big project out of cleaning his glasses, frowning all the while.
Marlee gave herself credit for being able to put people at ease most of the time, but Will Shafer was a tough nut to crack. He was polite and he never seemed to lose control, no matter how much he might be keeping inside. But he seemed tight as a drum.
Will was different from the other young people on the Gazette staff. He was known as a clear, neat writer, though hardly a brilliant stylist, and a dependable, accurate reporter. But Marlee didn’t think of him as having much of a cutting edge. Though he was about Marlee’s age, he was older than his years.
Will Shafer filled in on the city desk once or twice a week and, Marlee had heard, was competent and conscientious. There was nothing of the iconoclast in him.
A perfect editor for the Gazette. And why not? He had been a paperboy, and the Gazette had awarded him a college scholarship.
Now that she thought of it, Grant Siebert was Will Shafer’s polar opposite. He came across as pleasant, at least initially. But, Marlee thought, the more you got to know him (not that anyone did), the more you realized that the dancing light in his eyes wasn’t just restlessness or humor or intelligence. Was it contempt?
Being in the women’s section meant that Marlee had little direct contact with the city desk, the honchos who supervised the regular reporting staff. But she had friends throughout the paper, and she had heard how, time and again, Siebert’s behavior had been one step away from insubordination. And he had become famous for his cruel imitations of the older editors, especially those who were myopic, raspy voiced, or lame.
He had come to the Gazette only two years before. He had majored in history at Notre Dame, which hadn’t hurt when he applied at the Gazette. Catholic town, Catholic-slanted newspaper, she thought.
“Look who’s here,” Will said. Marlee could tell from Shafer’s voice and the look in his eyes that he was not a fan of the man who had just entered.
No, Marlee thought, Grant was not half-bad looking, with the straight white teeth and the paradoxical crooked, wise-ass smile, framed in recent weeks by a new mustache—and yes, the eyes with the dancing light in them.
Shoulders hunched in studied nonchalance under a fashionably shabby raincoat, Grant shuffled up to the b
ar and stuck out his hand. “Will,” he said simply.
“Good luck in New York, Grant,” Shafer said civilly.
“Thanks. Marlee, I appreciate your coming.”
“Hey, everyone deserves a good send-off.”
“I guess. Excuse me a minute.”
The guest of honor headed toward the men’s room.
“He seems a little down,” Marlee said. “Must be a weird feeling, going to your own farewell party.”
“Hmmm.” Will studied the bottom of his beer glass.
“I admire him for what he’s doing,” Marlee said. “I mean, it takes guts, heading to New York with nothing solid lined up.”
Will just nodded.
“You don’t like him much, do you?” Marlee said.
“I like him just enough to come to his farewell party.”
“That could mean you’re celebrating.”
Marlee saw Will’s face change.
“No, I don’t like him too much,” Will said. “He’s a real pain in the ass, from an editor’s standpoint. I mean, I don’t make the rules, you know? The Gazette runs some petty shit. Sure. Someone has to write it. I wrote it. Still do sometimes. And he’s too good to? Bullshit.”
“Ouch. I touched a nerve.”
“Yeah, well, you asked me. Obits, golden wedding anniversaries, briefs—all staples. Okay, dogshit, some of it. But it’s gotta be done. He drags his feet, and when he finally does do it, he’s apt to screw it up. Like, like …”
“Like it’s beneath him,” she said.
“Right. And you know what? I don’t need that shit, I really don’t.”
Mischievously, she pressed on. “You have to admit that story he had a year or so ago, about the police infiltrating the antiwar movement at the university—”
“Was a damn good story,” Shafer said. “I admit it. He got his facts wrong in a couple of places but … yeah, it was. Of course, that’s the kind of story he likes: thumbing his nose at authority.”
“That’s what some of the best reporting is, Will.”
Night of the Ice Storm Page 5
