“So I left him hanging there, in the basement, and went back outside, into the hot August day. And I thought, looking at the cars going by on the road as if nothing had happened, it was just another day. Except that my father had killed himself.”
Will paused, sobbed from deep in his soul.
Dr. Hopkins puffed. “A terrible weight for a teenager,” he said softly. “For anyone. And there’s more, isn’t there, Will?”
“More?”
“Still more you want to tell me. You mentioned a smell.”
“Oh, my God. God Almighty.”
“You’ve come so far, Will. You’re there now.”
“The smell. I guess what must have happened is, he’d changed his mind, at least for a moment. There were scuff marks on the nearest wall, where he’d kicked. Maybe he was trying to … Oh, Jesus …
“One of his shoes was off, he’d thrashed so much for, for however long it took. And his pants had come loose, come partway down, with the kicking and his not having a belt on. And there was, there was—you know what can happen to a body at death. Well, it had. To him, to my father.
“And as I left the basement, I remember feeling ashamed of him again. He was my father, and he couldn’t bear to live, he was so unhappy, and not only didn’t I help him but I was ashamed of him. Ashamed of my dead father.”
“And when you told your mother, what then?”
“She screamed, loud and high. I’ve never heard anything so bad. She ran out of the office, toward where my father was. She wasn’t very athletic, my mother, and she always had a weight problem. To tell you truth, she looked funny as she ran.” But at the memory, Will sobbed again.
“Go on. Will.”
“She screamed again, so loud it echoed off the basement walls, when she saw him hanging. Oh, God. She never was, she never did recover from that Never.”
With that. Will put his head into his hands and cried like a child. He felt as if his heart were being ripped out. He didn’t know how long he cried. When he was done, he looked at the doctor and blinked.
“Your father’s suffering has been over for a long time. Will. Your mother’s, too. It’s time to let go of yours.”
“I have felt so sad for so long.”
“Guilt can be a cancer, Will. It has been for you. Your father was a very troubled man, a very sick man, judging from what you’ve told me. It’s only conjecture, of course, but he might even have had a tough time getting adequate therapy today, let alone a few decades back.”
“He didn’t leave a note. I always thought the impulse might have come on him suddenly, while he was cleaning. He just felt buried by everything.”
“That may be, Will, although in my experience most suicides aren’t sudden.”
“Sometimes when I’ve seen men playing golf with boys, I’ve wished, wished …”
“You’ve carried the load long enough, Will. Let it go. Your father was a proud man. He wouldn’t want you to carry it, would he?”
“I guess not.”
“You know he wouldn’t. His suffering is over. He’s at peace.”
“At peace? A nice thought.” Will felt lighter.
“Your father would be proud of you. You know he would.”
“Yeah? Yeah. I guess he would.” Will felt lighter still.
“Now, Will, our time really is up for today. I think we can really see daylight now. Just try not—”
“Try not to put a timetable on it. I won’t. But the first chance I get, I’m going to watch a sunset from my porch deck. I’m going to drink a little gin and hold my wife’s hand. The sunsets are beautiful this time of year. Maybe tonight, if the rain stops.”
Thirty-five
The warm rain made rainbow-colored puddles in the Gazette’s parking lot. Marlee wiped the steam from the inside of the windshield, searching for a space close enough to the door so she wouldn’t get soaked. Damn, no luck. When she was almost at the end of the lot, down by a corner of the dock where papers were loaded onto delivery trucks, she spotted Lyle Glanford, Jr. He was standing at the edge of the dock, under the roof and out of the rain. He waved to her and signaled for her to open her window.
“Marlee, just drive up and park in the publisher’s spot,” Lyle shouted over the rain. “He’s not coming in today. You’ll get soaked otherwise.”
“Oh, Lyle, you’re a peach. Thanks.”
Yep, she thought; there are good things about working at a place for a long time.
She saw the huge steel door of the bay opening. Then she backed out of the hissing rain onto the dry concrete where the publisher usually parked.
“Can’t say we don’t treat our people right,” Lyle said.
“This is great. Thanks so much.” Marlee hugged Lyle and kissed him on the cheek. “Oh, can I get out of here later? I have to pick up my dog.”
“Sure. Just press that button on the wall. If a guard’s around, he’ll do it for you.”
Next to Marlee’s car was Lyle junior’s, and next to his were a couple of cars that Marlee recognized as belonging to other Gazette executives. Will Shafer had a reserved space, but he hadn’t come in yet.
Marlee went in the main building through the back door, walked down several metal corridors that smelled of ink, grease, and newsprint, then took an elevator to the newsroom floor.
Jenifer was at her desk. She waved at Marlee and went back to her typing. Marlee checked her messages: Detective Jean Gilman had called; nothing urgent; please call back.
Marlee thought of Ed Delaney, who had stayed at her house when she left. He’d said he wanted to listen to the dead-priest tape one more time, look at pictures just once more. Just in case. Marlee thought of calling him, decided against it. She would call later.
She called the animal hospital: indeed, Nigel was ready to leave, as good as new. Since she didn’t know exactly how long she’d be at work (especially if she and Jenifer talked things over), Marlee decided to use her lunch hour to pick up Nigel and drop him off at home.
Sitting at her desk, Marlee tried to separate her feelings: she liked Ed Delaney, though she wasn’t sure exactly how she liked him, yet she was disappointed—hurt, really—that Grant Siebert had not talked to her more. Now why was that? He had been a snotty bastard back then, and he probably hadn’t changed enough to make it worthwhile. Well, the hell with him. Marlee would make the day a good one, somehow: talking to Jenifer, picking up her dog, later a jog up by the reservoir and some wine.
What more could there be in life?
Her phone rang.
If he did not do it today, Grant Siebert thought as he drove slowly through the lashing rain, he might never. He had squandered his chances to corner her alone; now the easy chances were gone, and he would have to make his own opportunities.
He drove down Marlee’s street, squinting to see through the rain. There, there was her house. Maybe she had not left for work, maybe …
Goddamn it! Not only was her car gone, but there was a strange car in her driveway. What the hell was she doing?
Easy, Grant told himself. Try to act like a big boy. You don’t know whose car it is, and it’s not your business anyhow. Son of a bitch.
He drove by, not quite sure where to go next. He had checked out of the motel, and his plane didn’t leave until much later. Well, screw it. He would stay another day if he had to.
Spotting a phone booth, he pulled over. Son of a bitch, I should have brought a raincoat, he thought.
Heart beating fast, he fished coins out of his pocket, plunked them on the shelf under the phone. Do it now, he thought, before you talk yourself out of it. Do it, do it, you dirty coward. All these years …
He dialed.
“Marlee? It’s Grant Siebert. Listen. I didn’t get a chance to talk to you much. Uh, could I stop by and see you today before I fly back to New York?”
Ed Delaney had called his daughter’s friend’s house just to check. Yes, his daughter assured him, she had slept well (ha, Ed thought), and she would stay there
most of the day if that was all right Ed supposed that it was and made his daughter promise to call him at work later.
Marlee had left him a big pot of coffee, had told him what to switch on and off, then gone to work. Alone in the quiet of the house, he wondered if his daughter, Laura, would get along with Marlee if …
Slow down, Ed told himself.
Sipping his coffee, he walked to the window, looked at the rain pooling in the street, saw a few cars go by.
Yes, there was something in his head, a collection of impressions and recollections, some from a long time ago and some much more recent, that were trying to gel.
The recent things—what were they? Something he had heard while walking around the big lawn with Marlee. Something about golf clubs.
Ed felt weak in the knees. God Almighty, he thought. Can that be it?
The rain soaked Delaney’s shoulders and matted his hair. He paid no attention.
Shielding Marlee’s tape recorder and pictures under his coat, he rushed into the headquarters building. Jean Gilman was at her desk. “Some messages for you,” she said.
“Anything from Marlee West?”
“No. I tried to call her once, about the next counseling session, but her line was busy. I’ll—”
“Listen. This is important. If she calls, tell her I think I know … I know …”
“What?”
“I can’t say any more right now. Tell her I’ve got something. Tell her not to go anywhere with anyone she doesn’t know real well.”
Jean Gilman chuckled. “Should I tell her not to take candy from strangers?”
“This is serious. I’ll be gone for a while.”
“Where?”
“Basement of the records building.”
Still clutching the pictures and recorder under his dripping raincoat, he rushed off.
Delaney’s feet squished in his shoes as he stood in front of the old metal filing cabinet. It’s here, he thought. It’s here, and it’s been here all along. There’s only a couple of people in the world who would have known, who would have cared, all these years later. One of them was Ed Sperl, and the other one killed a priest. And then he probably killed Sperl.
Delaney used his key, unlocked the cabinet, pulled the long drawer toward him. There was the file: “Barrow, John; 71; unsolved.”
Delaney pulled out the file, thumbed through the photographs. After twenty years, they were no less horrible. They would never be any less horrible. He wiped his rain-wet fingers on his shirtfront, then picked through the papers.
Yes, there: in addition to the golf club embedded in the victim’s skull, two other clubs were lying near the body, both from a new set; the rest of the set was found upstairs with the victim’s luggage.
A new set of golf clubs.
Alone in the mildew smell of the records room, Delaney thought of that day in the house, after he’d seen the corpse. He remembered the detectives checking the priest’s bedroom, how one of them had made a passing remark about the priest’s new set of golf clubs.
Delaney put Marlee’s recorder on top of the cabinet, pressed the play button:
“… quest for glory in the Holy City of New York, we …”
Delaney pushed fast-forward.
“… mention it. The cops are keeping the pictures locked up tight.”
“What a disappointment for you.”
Voices of Ed Sperl and the younger Marlee, Delaney knew. He fast-forwarded again.
“… wasn’t just golfing down there …”
Fast-forward.
“… have been a fag deal?”
Fast-forward.
“Betcha whoever did it is long gone.”
“Still hacking away.”
“You sick bastard.”
“… yuk …”
“… awful thing …”
“… a terrible thing …”
“… to ruin a new set of clubs on a fag …”
“You just committed a double mortal sin …”
Delaney stopped, rewound briefly, stopped, pressed play again.
“… to ruin a new set of clubs …”
Delaney pressed stop, stared at the recorder. “Who are you?” he whispered. “You knew the priest’s golf clubs were new. Hardly anyone else in the world knew that, but you did. That’s because you planted one of them in the priest’s head.”
He put Marlee’s pictures on top of the cabinet, stared at the silly, careless, insolent, stoned faces from two decades before, squinted at the less-clear faces and parts of faces and shoulders and backs.
“You’re in one of these pictures, aren’t you?” Delaney whispered. “Maybe more than one. I don’t know if you moved away or stayed at home, and I don’t know how you look today, without your sideburns or beard or whatever you grew back then. But you’re here, aren’t you?”
Delaney locked the file back in the cabinet and ran back to his office. When he got there, Jean Gilman was gone. She had left no messages for him. Delaney dialed Marlee’s number. After a few rings, the switchboard operator came on the line and said that Marlee was away from her desk.
“What do you think?” Jenifer said.
“Yes,” Marlee said. “Yes. And I think we can work well together.”
“So do I. Now all we have to do is get Will Shafer’s approval. Should we go in together and ask him?”
Marlee thought. “First, let me talk to him alone. I think it’s best if I pitch him on it first. I know he respects both of us, but he respects me in a different way, I think. Or feels easier with me. We go way back. Will and I.”
“Okay. Whatever you say.”
Marlee and Jenifer had talked at length in the coffee room off the main news floor. Jenifer had thought about it much of the night, she said, and after she and Marlee had reviewed every scrap of knowledge they had, Jenifer was determined. She and Marlee would go to Will Shafer and try to get his okay for a story about the unsolved slaying of the Reverend John Barrow.
Marlee had deferred to her younger colleague, for this kind of story was more her forte. Jenifer sat across from Marlee, both of their coffees long cold, and wrote down what they knew:
That a promising early clue in the slaying, namely the tip from the Silver Swine bartender, had never been followed up, contrary to established police procedure.
That commanders in the detective division at that time had encouraged investigators to look for burglary suspects, even though there were clear indications that the slaying had been sexually motivated.
That the parents of the victim were bitterly disappointed to this day that their son’s killer had not been pursued more vigorously.
That at least one veteran police officer still on the Bessemer force had specific recollections about how the inquiry was sidetracked.
That a Bessemer priest who had known the victim had come forth to say that church leaders from that era, most of them now dead, had been disappointed that the case had not been pursued.
That the Gazette’s veteran police reporter, Ed Sperl, had died under suspicious circumstances after showing renewed interest in the case, and that a man seen drinking with Sperl on the night of his death had not been found.
That one of Sperl’s ex-wives had apparently fled the state under puzzling circumstances.
“Now,” Jenifer said, “I think we have a pretty good case for a story to take to Will Shafer. What’s wrong, Marlee. I see something in your face.”
Marlee was uneasy. “I’m having trouble sorting out what we can say from what we were told in confidence. I mean, by Father Dean and by Ed Delaney.”
“I know where you’re coming from, Marlee. I don’t want to violate any confidences either, if I can help it.”
If I can help it: those words bothered Marlee.
“Look,” Jenifer pressed on, “just suppose we did a story that caused the investigation to be reopened, and they caught the killer. I’d say the story was worth it at almost any cost. Wouldn’t you?”
“I guess.�
�
“Listen, Marlee. No news sources have ever accused me of violating any confidences. They’ve called me a bitch and a whole lot worse, but no one ever said I broke my word. We start off with what we know, and we take that to an editor we hope we can trust—”
“We can trust Will.”
“—and then we work on pinning down attribution and so on. If what Delaney told us would get him in trouble, we look for someone else to tell us the same thing. Same idea with Father Dean. If that doesn’t work, we find a more subtle way to get the same point across. First things first: we clear it with the editor.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to him. Today, I hope.”
“Excellent. After the first story runs, with any luck we’ll start getting new tips. Then maybe some prosecutor trying to make a name for himself will say something for publication. Then the ball starts rolling.”
“Funny. Back a little bit, when Ed Delaney seemed to be backing off, he said there wasn’t enough to take to a prosecutor.”
Jenifer smiled shrewdly. “Taking something to a prosecutor is one thing, especially if you’re a cop and thinking in terms of evidence and covering your ass. If we can get backing, we can take something directly to the public.”
“That sounds noble, almost.”
“Just realistic. The newspaper is where the power all comes together. We’ll talk some more. Right now, I have to get back to my housing story.” Jenifer stood up to go.
“All right.”
“What is it? You still look distracted. Cold feet?”
“No, it’s personal. I’m not sure how much I should like Ed Delaney’s company. And a little later, Grant Siebert is coming by to see me. Grant Siebert, of all people.”
Jenifer sat down again. “He’s the one whose party you taped. Why is he coming to see you?”
“I don’ know. He was just going to stop by the paper and say hello before he goes back to New York, I guess.”
“Hmmm. Be careful.”
Jenifer got up and left. Marlee sipped cold coffee, wondering when her life would be predictable once more.
Back at her desk, Marlee found two messages, both saying that Ed Delaney had called. She dialed his number, got no answer, then dialed Jean Gilman’s number. No answer.
Night of the Ice Storm Page 31
