Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  “You mean …?”

  “I consider myself a good cop,” Delaney said. “If there’s something here, I’ll find it. No matter what it takes. Or what it costs.”

  Marlee smiled. “That’s so good to hear. You don’t need to know all about my soul crisis, but I’ve had to do some thinking of my own. About hoping to find something and going after that part of it, or trying to learn the truth, no matter what it is.”

  “Heavy stuff,” Delaney said, frowning in mock solemnity. Then his face went cold serious. “I went down to the old-records section and got out the file on the priest. Went through every scrap of paper there.”

  “Must have been a lot.”

  “No, that’s the point. The pictures were there, from the crime scene and the autopsy, and there was my report as the first officer on the scene, and the medical examiner’s report. I saw some notes filed by burglary-squad detectives, based on stuff their snitches told them. It was all worthless, of course. I mean the stuff from the burglary detectives.”

  “Worthless?”

  “When I was in the basement where the body was, an old detective took me by the hand and gave me a little lesson. What it boiled down to was that it looked like a homosexual killing, not a burglary. Then things got turned around and the case was all of a sudden being treated as though it had started out as a break-in. There was even a note in the file that entry could have been gained through a basement window. But there was no sign of that. It was all bullshit.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “It was all for show. The most important thing of all, there was a memo there, about an interview with the bartender who’d called a few days after the body was discovered to say he might have seen the priest in this tavern around the time he was killed. The night of that big ice storm, as a matter of fact.”

  “Everyone remembers that storm, and where they were.”

  “That tip was never followed up, and that stinks, if you think about it. This bartender had called because he thought he recognized the priest from a picture.”

  “But he wasn’t sure?”

  “There wasn’t a real up-to-date picture. This was back before we had pictures on drivers’ licenses, remember. And people were changing their hairstyles, growing mutton-chops and beards and all that.”

  “When whiskers came to Bessemer,” Marlee said. “I’m sorry, go ahead.”

  Delaney leaned forward in his chair, his eyes more intense than Marlee had ever seen them. “See, the memo about the bartender made more sense than anything else. It was really promising. If the priest was gay, he might have been trolling the night he was killed.”

  “Right.”

  “But there was no follow-up. None. The thing from the bartender was the only good lead in there, the only one. And to not follow up on it flies in the face of good detective work. It’s so basic.”

  “But if there was a cover-up, why wouldn’t the memo about the bartender have simply disappeared?”

  Delaney smiled shrewdly. “It’s one thing to screw up an investigation with stupid police work. Happens all the time, even when it isn’t meant to. But to destroy something already in the file, that’s something much more dangerous. And that’s assuming whoever was covering up had access to the file. So I can understand why the note about the bartender stayed there.”

  “And if Ed Sperl saw the file?”

  “Which we’re sure he did. If he saw what I did, he’d have the same reaction.”

  Delaney and Marlee stared at each other for a minute. Ed tapped his fingers on the table.

  “We’re thinking the same thing,” Delaney said. “When Sperl saw that, he’d know there’d been a cover-up.”

  Marlee nodded, tried as hard as she could to be coldly objective. “God rest his soul,” she said. “Ed Sperl drank right here in my house, and I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “But?”

  “At his worst, he was a bum. If he found out something about someone—some secret—he might try to exploit it.”

  “What they call blackmail. I thought of that.”

  “And that would explain the money he was expecting. We know he wasn’t writing a story for the Gazette, or a book, about this case, and as far as I know, he wasn’t writing for one of those pulpy true-crime magazines. They don’t pay that much anyhow.” Marlee stopped; she had just thought of Grant Siebert and wondered how much to believe him, or how much to believe anyone.

  “Let’s figure Sperl was a greedy son of a bitch who tried to squeeze someone,” Delaney said. “Trouble is, the person he tried to squeeze had killed once.”

  “And maybe killed again, killed Ed Sperl.”

  Delaney shrugged. “I’ve heard that killing gets easier after the first time.”

  “You’ve never killed anyone?”

  “No.” Delaney looked troubled.

  “What is it, Ed?”

  “I’ve thought now and then if my daughter would look at me the same way if I ever killed anyone.”

  “She, she’d know that you had done what you had to do.”

  “Mmmm. But getting back to topic A, I know what you said about your talk with the priest’s father in Pennsylvania. But I still think the diocese could squelch something better than anyone else.”

  “Ed, I have something to tell you.”

  She told him everything she could remember about the meeting with the priest. She said she couldn’t reveal the priest’s name because he’d asked her not to, and she spoke only in a general way about how she and Jenifer had been introduced to the priest in the park.

  “I’ll be damned,” Delaney said when Marlee was finished.

  “But you told me an old cop said, ‘This is a Catholic town.’ That’s what you remember him saying.”

  “Sure. And it is. We both grew up here.” Delaney’s face darkened. “That can mean so many things. Maybe the killer was another priest, or someone local with a lot of church influence. Or maybe it’s simpler than that. Every March on the nearest Sunday to St. Patrick’s Day there’s a big communion breakfast for Irish cops. Priests and cops, cops and priests. True harps all, and very much intertwined. You want to complicate things more, I know a couple of cops who’ve gone into the priesthood over the years. For that matter, a cop friend of mine spent some time in a seminary.”

  Marlee had an itch in her brain. “This is all fine, Ed. But why now? If Ed was trying to squeeze someone and got killed for it, why now? And why his sudden interest in the old case? … Of course.”

  Delaney smiled thinly and nodded. “Until his untimely death, Ed Sperl was a curator of all things bright and beautiful about the reunion. Right? Suppose he was gathering nuggets about how people survived the great ice storm, which we think was the same night the priest got whacked.”

  “God, you mean it might have been someone who worked at the Gazette!”

  Delaney chuckled. “You were telling me how there’s been a parade of people who’ve gone through the Gazette over the years. Some left town, some stayed in town. We’re talking about a lot of people.”

  “Dozens. Dozens. I’ve been to farewell parties as many times as I’ve been to the beach, almost. And it isn’t just ex-Gazette people who came back for the reunion. We started twisting the arms of other people.”

  “We?”

  “The reunion organizers, of which I was one, unofficially. Because the publisher and his Chamber of Commerce friends wanted it, we called other people. Oh, hell, we called some people who had no connection with the Gazette, just because we didn’t want our own birthday party to be too small.”

  “And those people were asked to say where they’d been the night of the ice storm?”

  “I guess,” Marlee said. “Depending on whether Ed Sperl wanted to ask them.”

  “So. Assume, just assume for a moment, that Ed Sperl was gay and knew the gay scene around Bessemer. I can tell you from the time I spent on vice that it was a pretty small scene, and a quiet one. Ed might have known of someone trolling the nigh
t of the storm, someone who was gay and in the closet.”

  “Ed might have known,” Marlee agreed. “And he might have picked up on it if that person didn’t want to talk about that night. No one in his right mind would say anything to draw attention to himself if he’d killed someone that night.”

  “No. But suppose somebody just refused to go along, refused to be a good sport and say where he was that night.”

  “That would draw more suspicion,” Marlee agreed.

  “Not a bad theory, yes?”

  “Well, yes. But the pictures Ed was looking at that time in my place, and the tape with the jokes on it, how do they fit into all this?”

  “I never said I had all the answers. Could I have some more coffee?”

  “Oh, sure. I have some time before I have to get ready for the dinner at the country club.” For a fleeting moment, Marlee wished Ed Delaney were going there with her; she wondered if it showed on her face.

  “Those pictures Sperl was interested in, who took them?”

  “Arnie Schwartz, the Gazette’s chief photographer for a long time. He used to take them just to be nice. He’s dead now.”

  “God, isn’t everybody. Do me a favor. Let me take those pictures with me, okay? I know I looked at them once, but what the hell. If Sperl was intent on them, maybe I should be, too.”

  “Sure, Ed. Be right back.”

  Marlee got her picture box from the corner of the closet in the hall. Then she glanced at the clock: almost three. If she called the vet right away, she might get one of the doctors or a nurse before they left for the weekend.

  “Excuse me just for a minute, Ed,” she said, handing Delaney the pictures. Then she went into her bedroom and dialed the veterinarian. A woman answered.

  “It’s Marlee West. I own that sick Airedale, Nigel. Just calling to be sure he’s okay.”

  “Hi, this is Dr. Grimm. You betcha he is. He had a tiny bit of discomfort in his last bowel movement, but that’s not abnormal. I’m not really concerned, but I would like to keep him until Monday, as I said.”

  “That’s fine. Just give him a hug for me.”

  “Will do. I’ll be checking on him tomorrow, too. Not to worry.”

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  When Marlee returned to the living room, Delaney was on his feet. “Have a good time tonight,” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll try.”

  “I think there’s a good chance that if the priest killer is still around, he’ll keep a low profile.”

  “That would be good. I think. God, what a thing to live with.”

  “Maybe Ed Sperl wouldn’t let him.”

  “Oh! What about his ex, Olga? Is she safe?”

  Delaney frowned. “I was afraid you’d ask that. For now, probably. Maybe for good, if she stays far away. Thanks for the coffee.”

  Thirty-two

  Feeling uncharacteristically dapper in a pale blue seersucker suit Karen had picked out for him, Will walked across the parking lot of the Bessemer Country Club with his wife on his arm. The rain had rinsed the air, left it smelling like mint.

  “Be sensible tonight,” Karen said.

  “That’s my trouble. I’m always sensible.”

  “Yes, but you had some beer playing golf and you were singing in the shower. Remember?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Will halted under a tree that hung over the lot and that offered the last measure of seclusion before they would go inside.

  “What?” Karen said.

  “This is almost over, this birthday nonsense. And there’s still some summer left for us to sit on the deck and look at the lake. Do I sound like a fool?”

  “Of course. How many beers did you have?”

  “Just three, I think. One on the course while it rained. Then two more in the clubhouse, talking with Grant Siebert and some of the other guys.”

  “Then you had four all told, because you had one in the shower.”

  “Oh. Okay. But you should have seen Lyle. Didn’t have much more than I did, but he was pretty close to plastered. And all day he was on the ass of this young banker.”

  “Shhh! Now don’t forget to pace yourself, Will.”

  And then they were inside in the music and babble of the country club, with its new paint and new carpeting and reupholstered furniture.

  “So,” Will said. “Let’s mingle.”

  “Okay, we’ll mingle,” Karen said. “Just don’t mingle too much with the gin and tonic.”

  Will spotted Archangelo Grisanti. “Arkie! What did you shoot?”

  “A ninety-two.”

  “Too bad, Arkie. You didn’t even break ninety. Get it? Oh, and thanks for building that shelter over by the thirteenth. It kept me dry.”

  Karen and Will moved on, toward the bar at the end of the room.

  “What was that all about?” Karen asked.

  “Tell you later. Oops.”

  Will felt a warning pressure on his arm; Karen had spotted the publisher before Will had.

  “Will,” Lyle Glanford, Sr. said. “Isn’t this grand?”

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “The product of the work of a lot of good men—and women!”

  Will saw Karen smile grudgingly at the forced gallantry laced with sexism.

  “Did you have a good round, Will?”

  “Well, Lyle, let’s say I had fun.”

  “I have to confess I took a motor cart for the last few holes. Too bad about the rain interruption.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Lyle and I sat in the shelter over by thirteen and had some beer with Grant Siebert. You remember him; he worked for us in the early seventies.”

  “Yes. Well, I’ll be seeing you later at the table. Will. Right now I’m trying to find my son.”

  Will noticed a tightness around the publisher’s mouth that always indicated anger.

  “Ah, me,” Will whispered to Karen. “He’s pissed at Lyle junior for something. I know it.”

  “Don’t let yourself get stuck in any baby-sitting or mediation role,” Karen said quietly.

  Good advice, Will thought. He ordered a gin and tonic for himself and a white wine for Karen. “You have to admit, the place looks a lot better,” he said.

  “A lot better. Of course, there aren’t that many people in Bessemer who can come here to see it, but who cares?”

  “Pretty snooty attitude if you ask me. Hi, Marlee.”

  “Hi, Will. How are you Karen?”

  “Hi, Marlee,” Karen said.

  “You look terrific.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “I just hope the food’s good,” Will said. “Hi, Grant. You look like you recovered from golf. You remember my wife, Karen.”

  “Sure. Hello.” Grant smiled uncomfortably as he sipped a beer and sidled up next to Marlee.

  “Hi, Grant,” Karen said. “I understand you and Will had fun today.”

  “It was fun,” Grant said. “You wouldn’t know it to see me play, but I really did practice.”

  “Hey, you weren’t that bad!” Will said. “Never mind the score. You hit a lot of good shots. We all did!”

  “Will is feeling very expansive tonight,” Karen said. “He’s ready for another round of golf. And another round of something else.”

  “Why not?” Will said. Then he saw Lyle Glanford, Jr., approaching, drink in hand. “Hi, Lyle. This is it, buddy. We’re all done. If the food is no good, they can’t blame us.”

  “I got news for you,” Lyle junior said. “My father can find ways to blame me for everything.”

  “Ah, you did a hell of a job. So did I. And you, Marlee. And Grant, thanks for coming all this way.” Will touched Grant’s glass with his own.

  “Fine,” Grant said. He smiled but did not let down his reserve.

  The conversational group was held together for a few minutes by talk of who was sitting where. Will and Karen were sitting at the publisher’s table, as were Lyle junior, a couple of other Gazette executives, and the head of the Chamber of Com
merce. Marlee was sitting close by with Jenifer, some other reporters and middle-level editors, and a businessman she didn’t know.

  “How about you, Grant?” Karen said.

  “Table thirteen,” Grant said. “I didn’t recognize any of the names.”

  They talked for a few more minutes before the people in the group spun off and attached to other groups. Then Will and Karen were more or less alone.

  “He’s shy,” Karen said.

  “Who?” Will said.

  “Your friend from New York. He’s shy.”

  “Grant? I can’t believe it. He always had an ego big enough to fill the whole newsroom. And he’s not exactly my friend, although we did play golf.”

  “He could be your friend. And he is shy.”

  Will thought about that. Karen was usually on the mark.

  The publisher’s table was among the first to be served, and Will and Karen wound up with good pink cuts of beef. Lyle junior was on the other side of the table.

  Will took only an occasional sip of Bordeaux during the meal.

  “Old dad, this is a little bit of all right,” Lyle junior said to his father, who answered his son with silence and a cold glint in his eye. “More than all right. Don’t you agree, Will?”

  “Sure,” Will said.

  The president of the Bessemer Chamber of Commerce was at the dais now, looking serious and self-conscious. He tapped a spoon against a water glass, and a number of diners did the same to signal for quiet. Lyle junior also struck his water glass, so hard that Will thought it might break and shower water and glass all over the table.

  “May I have … may I have your attention, please,” the Chamber president said over the gradually receding noise. “Please, thank you. I know some of you haven’t finished your meals, but we’d like to get started. We have some announcements to make and some awards to give out.”

  “Whoopee!” Lyle junior said.

  Will turned his head toward his wife to hide his laugh.

  “The sooner we’re done with these formalities,” the Chamber president said, “the sooner we can commence a night of dancing and …”

  “Commence?” Lyle junior said. “Did he really say ‘commence’?”