by Bryan Gruley
She woke again later, needing to use the bathroom. She tried to push the bathroom door open but it stopped against something. She walked around to the door at the other end of the bathroom. Phyllis was sprawled across the Me Sweet Ho rug, unmoving, her eyes closed. Blood had splattered on the rug and pooled on the floor around her head. Her cell phone lay on the floor.
“Was she alive?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean you don’t think so?”
“No. She wasn’t alive.”
“How long had she been lying there?”
“I have no way of knowing. I was asleep.”
“So you called nine-one-one?”
“When I saw her lying there, I knew I was right to be afraid. I knew they’d come looking.”
Whistler hadn’t expected to find anyone there. After he slid into the bathroom and Mrs. B saw him, he must have panicked. When he’d panicked in the past, he’d put his fist through computer screens. The pinkie ring must have made the gash above Mrs. B’s eye. That’s why Dingus demanded it, I thought.
“And you called?” I said.
“Phyllis was dead, but I called. I had to hurry.”
She went back to her room. She dug the lockbox containing the piece of map, her rosary, and the newspaper clipping out of the back of the closet. She threw her boots on and ran through the big yard, across the road, and up the hill to Dad’s garage. She put the lockbox in the trunk of the Bonneville, neglecting to close the lid tightly, and stood there for a few seconds, willing herself to remember. Then she ran back to her house.
“You panicked,” I said. “And you lost your boot.”
“I couldn’t stop. I could hear a siren. I had to get back. The next morning, I saw the one boot at the back door and couldn’t remember what had happened to the other.”
“But you remembered where the lockbox was.”
“Yes.”
“And you called nine-one-one before you went up to the garage?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“Just making sure you remember correctly. That’s a hike to get back before-”
“I know, Gussy. That’s how I lost my boot.”
She let go of my hand and stood and walked back to the transom. I followed, stopping a few feet behind her.
“I don’t know what to say,” she said.
“Why?”
“I might as well have killed Phyllis with my own hands.”
“No. Let it go, Mom. There was nothing-”
“Stop.” She spun to face me, her eyes filling with tears. “Stop telling me everything I did was all right. I made choices. Now my best friends are gone.”
“It wasn’t just your-”
“Stop, goddammit.” Her voice echoed through the church. “You know the truth now. All right? I told you the truth. Everyone knows the truth. Are you all happy now? Are you free? Has the truth set you free, Gus?”
I stepped close and wrapped my arms around her. I whispered into her ear, “I’m glad you told me the truth.” I held her longer and tighter than I had in years.
She sighed as she loosed my embrace. “I’m glad you’re glad,” she said. “Now can you take me home, please? I can’t stay in this place any longer.”
I dropped her at her house. Someone had plowed her driveway. I thought maybe I ought to stay awhile, but she told me she wanted to be alone. After all she’d gotten through for so long, I figured she’d get through this, too.
The last story for the final print edition of the Pilot went from my computer screen to the printing plant five minutes before deadline.
“Good-bye,” I said.
I supposed somebody in Traverse City would plant a “Note to Readers” on the front page telling them Media North was ceasing publication of the Pilot. The note would thank subscribers for their loyalty and vow that coverage of their “region,” never mind their county or their town, would continue unabated, because nobody was more devoted to the news than Media North.
There were no speeches or tributes or weeping staffers standing around with undone ties and dangling press passes. There was just me and the reek of toner and the buzzing of the lamps.
The single story I wrote concerned Judge Gallagher binding both Breck and Whistler over for trial. Of course, I couldn’t report what happened in the judge’s chambers. But I did plan to tell Darlene what Mom told me about her long-ago meeting with Reilly.
After sending the story, I dialed into the Pilot voice mail system, in case there was a message I wanted or, more likely, one I didn’t want my bosses to hear. There were fifty-six messages in all. One by one I deleted them after listening to a few seconds of each, until I came to message twenty-two.
“Anyone checking on those whackaroonies at the Christian camp?” the muffled male voice said. “They’re all agitated with the county. Maybe they’re just messing with us, and now they made a big damn mistake.”
Something about it bothered me. I played it again. The voice was muffled enough that it seemed to be intentional. In the background, I heard a clicking sound. I figured out how to turn up the volume and played it again. And then once more.
I knew that clicking: Whistler’s ring on his steering wheel. And then I thought, Holy shit, I’ll bet it was him, not D’Alessio, who tipped the cops that Tatch didn’t show up for that hockey game. Whistler had heard me talk about it at the hospital that night. D’Alessio probably hadn’t given it another thought.
I saved message twenty-two and made a mental note to tell Darlene about that, too.
Once I’d deleted the other messages, I packed up my Tigers beer stein, a few pens, a legal pad, a stapler, a box of paper clips, and a package of printer paper. I went up front and gathered up Mrs. B’s photographs.
I snapped the lights off at twenty-six minutes past five. I was almost out the door when I remembered my keyboard. I’d written hundreds of stories on it and liked the feel of the keys. I went back and unplugged it and tucked it under my arm.
Seven hours later, I had to bring it back, because I had one more story to write. It was too late for the paper but I posted it online before I headed over to the celebration at Enright’s.
UPSET! RATS SINK PIPEFITTERS, GO TO MICHIGAN STATE FINAL
By A. J. Carpenter
Pilot Staff Correspondent
In a triple-overtime thriller that ranks with the biggest upsets in Michigan hockey history, the Hungry River Rats of Starvation Lake beat the Pipefitters of Trenton, 2–1, to advance to Saturday’s state championship final.
Goaltender Dougie Baker stopped a play-off record 71 shots in a performance River Rats Coach Dick Popovich called “absolutely stunning.” Highlights included a diving glove save on a breakaway by Pipefitter star Bobby Hofmeister with 18 seconds remaining in the second overtime.
The victory marked the first time the River Rats (23-6-2) had ever beaten the Pipefitters (27-3-1). The teams came into the game ranked #7 and #2 in the state, respectively.
The Rats’ other star was on the ice for less than ten seconds. Team scoring leader Matthew “Tex” Dobrick wasn’t expected to play due to a severe ankle sprain.
But Dobrick showed up in uniform, skated in the team’s pregame warm-up, and appeared at center ice for the opening face-off before retiring to the bench, in obvious pain, for the rest of the game.
“Tough kid,” said Pipefitters Coach Ron Wallman. “We came into the building figuring he was a scratch, and seeing him out there messed with our heads.”
A packed Starvation Lake Arena exploded nearly four minutes into the third overtime when Ethan Banonis banged in a rebound for the win.
“It’s a great moment for a great town,” Popovich said. “But we still have work to do.”
The Rats will play for the state title in their home rink at 5 p.m. Saturday against the top-ranked Austin Painters (28-0-3), who beat Fife Electric, 6–3, in the earlier semifinal.
The Rats have played for the state title only once before. In 1981
, they lost to the Pipefitters, 2–1, on a questionable overtime score allowed by goaltender Augustus Carpenter.
THIRTY
The sky was flawless blue outside the barred window behind Luke Whistler’s head.
It was a morning in July. Whistler sat across from me with his manacled hands folded atop the metal table, his white hair trimmed to a crew cut, his pinkie naked of his ring. His black Toronado was parked outside in the impound lot of the Pine County Jail.
“Enjoying your stay, Luke?” I said.
He’d been refusing my requests to speak with him since his trial in May. On this morning, one hour before he was to appear in court for his sentencing, Darlene had rousted him from his jail cell and brought him to the interview room where I was waiting.
“Piss off, junior,” he said. “You’re a minor-leaguer and that’s all you’ll ever be.”
“And your journalism career has ended badly, as predicted,” I said. “What happened to your ring? The cops hock it?”
At trial it had come out that Bitsy Whistler, before departing Starvation Lake for the last time, had swiped a ciborium from the sacristy at St. Valentine’s. After she died, Whistler had it melted down and made into the ring.
“These cops are fuckups,” Whistler said. “You watch-I’m getting off on appeal. I didn’t kill anyone. Yeah, I panicked, but I didn’t hit anybody hard enough to kill them. She had a heart attack. I couldn’t help that.”
The jury had convicted Whistler of manslaughter. Dingus had wanted a charge of second-degree murder, but Eileen Martin didn’t think she could make it stick. Except for a fingerprint Whistler could have left the night he had dinner at Mom’s, there was no physical evidence that he’d actually been in the house. Whistler had learned well from the burglar he’d followed on that aborted Free Press story.
With a little help from me, Darlene dug up evidence suggesting Whistler had motive. There were canceled checks written to Whistler’s mother by Nilus until just before his death, and then by various people at Eagan, MacDonald amp; Browne until Bitsy died.
“That’s not what the jury said, is it, Luke?” I said. “If it was a heart attack, why’d you go to such lengths to point the finger elsewhere-the message on the voice mail, making me think I was discovering stuff about Nilus when you knew about it all along? Huh? Why didn’t you just come clean?”
“I had a story to get.”
“That reminds me. I know how you knew about your mother killing the nun-”
“Nilus killed the nun.”
“Right. I know how you knew she was buried under the church, but how did you know about Nilus moving her?”
Whistler shrugged. “He made a few visits to see my mother downstate. You can read all about it in my book.”
The Detroit Times, under the byline of M. Joan McCarthy, had reported that at least two New York publishers had expressed interest in a Lucas B. Whistler memoir. It infuriated me, but what could I do? People wanted to read that sort of stuff, so other people published it. It wasn’t all that different from how I’d made my living.
Now, though, sitting within reach of the man who had killed a woman I loved who was the mother of another woman I loved, I recalled Poppy’s advice to Tex. With one hard, unexpected right, I could shatter Whistler’s nose, break his jaw, watch him suffer, if only until Darlene came in and dragged me away.
I stood and moved around the table to Whistler’s right. He looked up at me.
“A book’s a pretty good idea,” I said. “Maybe I’ll write one.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You too, Luke. I’ll miss you in court today, though. Going fishing.”
State troopers arrested Father Timothy Reilly one week after the arraignments of Breck and Whistler. The archdiocese and the state cops had arranged it so he’d be taken into custody in the middle of the night, when no reporters were around.
But Dingus got a heads-up. Catledge heard and called Darlene at home, where she was finishing up her suspension. She told me and I called Joanie McCarthy, who was waiting with a Times photographer when police brought Reilly out in cuffs.
Judge Gallagher bound Reilly over for trial on a charge of first-degree murder in the 1944 disappearance of Sister Mary Cordelia Gallesero. The priest refused to speak to the police and stood mute in the courtroom, where his lawyers from Eagan, MacDonald amp; Browne plied Gallagher’s deaf ears with pleas to leave an old man be. Dingus and Eileen Martin knew the charge was over the top, but they hoped to elicit evidence that Reilly had conspired in the past year to conceal what Nilus and Bitsy Whistler had done.
In the meantime, Reilly, out on bond, went into hiding while the Detroit newspapers wrote story after story about the archdiocese’s alleged cover-up of Nilus’s chronic womanizing, the death of the nun, the reburial of her bones. I was able to slip Joanie a few tips on where to find paternity suits. One day I got an e-mail from her that made me smile: “Our buddy Regis is no longer in the employ of Eagan MacDonald.” She said she owed me a Red Wings game, and I said that if I could bring Darlene along, that would be fine.
After his release, soon after Reilly’s arrest, Wayland Breck rented a cabin on Crooked Lake so he could keep tabs on the trials of the priest and Whistler and assist the prosecution where needed. But when Tatch and his fellow Christian campers heard Breck was still around, they organized daily pickets at his cabin. If the Pilot had still been publishing, it would have run a three-column photo of people parading past his house, holding signs that said BRECK GO HOME and LIARS BELONG DOWNSTATE. Breck left Starvation in early June.
The Michigan State Bar’s Judicial Ethics Committee came down hard on Judge Gallagher after learning of the shenanigans in his chambers. Rather than face censure, Gallagher retired. He posted his typewritten resignation letter on a bulletin board at Audrey’s Diner amid ads for propane and landscaping services. The letter thanked everyone in Starvation, “especially those who both violate and enforce the law, for making my life so interesting for more than forty years.” He said quitting wasn’t difficult because his cancer had spread and he was moving to Arizona where he would “bask in the warmth of the Lord while preparing for the one verdict that truly matters.”
The sun hovered just over the tree line at the lake’s far end. I was sitting in the oak swing on the bluff at Mom’s house. I felt a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Darlene said.
“Just looking at the lake. The sun’s still out and what is it? Nine o’clock?”
“About.”
“I love July.”
“So did your mother,” Darlene said. She had a towel knotted over her bikini bottom. She sat, her bare knee grazing my thigh. “How was fishing?”
“Not much biting, but fun to hang with Soup.”
“How is he?”
“You know. Polished off a six-pack by the time we got to the cove. Thinking of selling the bar. Or maybe not. He got a legit offer on his parents’ place. That should tide him over for, I don’t know, a month or two.”
“Poor Soupy.”
“And he got a dog.”
“No.”
“Yeah. My fault. I showed him a picture of old Stanley, he wanted another dog.”
“Is this one afraid of umbrellas, too?”
I laughed.
“So,” I said, “Whistler got the max?”
“Fifteen years.”
“Did you get to usher him out?”
“No. Watched from the cheap seats. I’m not quite back in Dingus’s good graces.”
“You’ll get there.”
She stretched her arms over her head and wagged her neck back and forth. “I was so sweaty from all the unpacking, I had to go for a dip.”
I had watched her from the swing. She swam freestyle straight out from the dock a hundred yards, then flipped on her back and paddled out to the middle of the lake, where all I could see was the wake of her kicking feet. I could have watched all night.
I reached into my pocket and
pulled out a photograph and a folded piece of paper.
“Good thing I didn’t toss that box,” I said.
“Which box?”
“The one from Mom sitting on my sofa for weeks. It had a bunch of crayon drawings I did as a kid and report cards and other junk. But this is actually interesting.”
I handed Darlene the Polaroid. She looked. I saw her eyes mist.
“Mom,” she said. “And look how cute you are.”
The photo was black and white. Mrs. B sat astride a hospital bed with an arm around me, her eyes wide and happy behind her big glasses. I was trying to smile but my throat probably hurt too much.
“Where is this?” Darlene said.
“A hospital downstate. I just got my tonsils out.”
“Why was my mother there? I don’t remember this.”
“Supposedly she was there because Mom couldn’t handle hospitals after Dad died. But this”-I brandished the folded paper-“suggests Mom was up to something else.”
It appeared to have been torn from the kind of notepad Mom kept by her kitchen phone. I gave it to Darlene. “Oh, gosh,” she said.
I’d found it stuck to the back of the Polaroid. Written on it in my mother’s handwriting was the address and phone number for Eagan, MacDonald amp; Browne on Shelby Street in downtown Detroit.
“That’s when she saw Reilly,” Darlene said.
“Gotta be. He isn’t going to get off, is he?”
“He has some good lawyers.”
“Paid for by the collection basket,” I said. “At the very least, he’s dragging the archdiocese’s name through the mud.”
“Is that important to you?” Darlene said.
“I don’t mind it.”
She turned her body on the swing to face me. “I lost my mother, but I don’t intend to lose my faith. She was too strong for that.”
I wanted nothing but peace with Darlene. We were neighbors now, she in her mother’s house, me in Mom’s. We had agreed to live that close, maybe sell one of the houses later, move into the other together. For now, we were close enough that I could leave her bed in the middle of the night and walk home, and she could do the same.
