Morgue Mama

by Corwin, C. R.

  ***

  During our lunch, the conversation had repeatedly drifted to Aubrey’s series on the Buddy Wing murder. Dale had written a crime series or two during his years on the police beat and understandably wanted to know exactly how she was organizing it. I told him what I knew:

  The first story, scheduled to run on Wednesday, would lead with Sissy James’s confession that she did not poison the Rev. Buddy Wing. It would rehash Ronny Doddridge’s suicide and Tim Bandicoot’s own recent confession of his affair with Sissy. It would also rehash Buddy’s death and his nasty split with Tim Bandicoot over speaking in tongues. But this story wouldn’t contain too many details. This was the teaser story.

  Thursday’s story would go back to the very beginning, Buddy Wing’s childhood in West Virginia and his migration to Hannawa to begin his ministry. It would discuss Buddy’s theological beliefs and the nuts and bolts of building his evangelical empire, from the salad days of the Clean Collar Club, to the erection of the Heaven Bound Cathedral. It would end with the coming of Guthrie Gates. A sidebar would explore Hannawa’s emergence as the “The Hallelujah City.”

  Friday’s story would re-examine Tim Bandicoot’s falling out with Buddy over speaking in tongues, the snake handling and the like. Ronny Doddridge’s sudden appearance as security guard would be recounted, and so would the lingering anger and suspicion—and the spying—between the two congregations. One sidebar would tell Tim Bandicoot’s life story: his childhood in Buddy Wing’s church, his Bible college years, his marriage to Annie, their fall from grace and their struggles at the New Epiphany Temple. Another sidebar would recount some of Buddy’s troubles: his wife’s death from lung cancer, his run-ins with Wayne F. Dillow and Edward Tolchak, his church’s many near-bankruptcies, how over the years he survived the Tonight Show jokes about his having Jesus’s phone number for example, the snide comments about how he dressed and talked and wore his hair.

  On Saturday Aubrey would tell the world about Sissy’s pitiful childhood, the stripping and prostitution, her rescue by Jesus Christ, her affair with Tim Bandicoot, her confession to the murder. As Aubrey promised, the story would not say a word about little Rosy.

  Sunday’s story would be the big finale. It would state emphatically that Sissy was telling the truth, that she was in Mingo Junction that Thanksgiving weekend, visiting her cousin, as she did every year. The story would examine the length somebody went to frame her, the evidence sprinkled in her garbage and the spare bedroom where she worked on her crafts. The story would ask: If Sissy James didn’t do it, then who did? There would be several sidebars. One would examine the police department’s hurried investigation. One would ask why Tim Bandicoot and Guthrie Gates, and others who knew Sissy, so readily accepted her confession; that story also would tell readers where those good Christians were the night Buddy was poisoned. Another sidebar would show just how easy it was for the real murderer to enter the inner bowels of the cathedral and paint that poison cross on the Bible, fill that pitcher with poisoned water. The final sidebar would tell Aubrey’s story—the broken car windows, the threats and the bruises, the red Taurus station wagon that pursued her while she sought the truth, and, yes, how Tim Bandicoot and Guthrie Gates got into a shoving match in Bob Averill’s office.

  Accompanying Aubrey’s stories on Sunday would be an editorial imploring the Hannawa police to reopen the case.

  ***

  Monday, July 10

  I came in at eight and went straight to Aubrey’s desk. A felt-tip pen was sticking out of her mouth like a cigar. Her fingers were draped across her keyboard like ten sleeping salamanders. Every few seconds a few fingers would twitch awake and a string of words would race across her computer screen. Several diet Coke cans were in her wastebasket. Several Milky Way wrappers, too. “I hope you didn’t work all night,” I said.

  She tilted her head back until she was looking straight up into my face. She yawned noisily, like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz. “I should have,” she said.

  So I let her work and went to my desk to collect my mug. Had it only been four months since Aubrey McGinty first called me Morgue Mama to my face? Asked to see the files on Buddy Wing? It seemed more like four years—one of those officially packaged four years, like college or a presidential term, with a distinct beginning, an endlessly horrifying but exhilarating middle, and an abrupt end.

  And it was going to end abruptly, in less than forty-eight hours. Once those big presses downstairs started rolling with that big story splashed across the top of Page One, the journey that put Aubrey and me in the same wobbling canoe would be over. Her life would go in one direction and mine in another. We’d talk, when there was something to say. We might even reminisce if the opportunity arose. But things would not be the same.

  At ten-thirty I heard Aubrey yell, “Who has time for this crap?”

  She yelled that after getting a call from the police department’s PR guy, informing her that Chief Polceznec was going to hold a news conference at eleven. Tinker sent Doreen Poole to cover it. She came back at noon with the lead story for Tuesday’s paper:

  Beleaguered police chief says he’ll retire early

  Sylvia Berdache hurried to a one o’clock press conference at City Hall, providing a sidebar to the story:

  Sad to see his “old amigo” step down, mayor appoints Ted Duffy interim chief

  I just knew Lionel Percy sent one of his flunkies out for cake and ice cream. Ted Duffy was a well-known paper-pusher in the safety director’s office, in Sylvia’s words, “a real marshmallow who wouldn’t even rock the boat in his bathtub.”

  A little after two, Eric Chen appeared at my desk with a grin on his face. He handed me a printout, the way a boy hands a doctored report card to his mother. Eric wanted nothing to do with Aubrey these days, not after that night in Meri, but I was still his boss. I’d told him to keep checking the computer files for information on the various people connected to the Buddy Wing story, especially Annie Bandicoot.

  When I read the printout I clutched my throat, in case my heart had any idea of escaping. “Good job,” I said.

  I took a long, steadying drink of my room-temperature tea and trotted to Aubrey’s desk. “Eric just brought me this,” I said, sliding the printout into her hands. It was a short story, written months earlier by religion editor Nanette Beane:

  HANNAWA—Right after serving their own families Thanksgiving dinner, the wives of six local ministers left for eastern Kentucky Thursday night, their cavalcade of minivans and station wagons loaded with food, clothing and toys to make this Christmas a little brighter for families in that economically ravaged region.

  “It’s a little thing for us to do,” said Joy Brown, wife of the Rev. Donald Brown, pastor of Culver Ridge Methodist Church, “but it’ll be a big thing for the families down there.”

  Brown, coordinator of the trip, said the women would spend Friday and Saturday visiting homes in Lee and Owsley counties and then attend Sunday morning worship services at the Baptist church in Korbin Knob, a small mountain town approximately 80 miles southeast of Lexington.

  Other women making the trip were Ellen Hopsen, wife of the Rev. Ernest Hopsen, Tamarack Episcopal Church, Hannawa Falls; Jennifer Moeller, wife of the Rev. Richard Moeller, Greenlawn Reformed Church, Greenlawn; Sophia Wildenhein, wife of the Rev. Ralph Wildenhein, St. Marks Lutheran Church, Brinkley; Annie Bandicoot, wife of the Rev. Tim Bandicoot, New Epiphany Temple, Hannawa; and Cynthia Short, wife of the Rev. John Short, Spire Hill United Church of Christ, North Hannawa.

  Items for the mission were donated by members of the six participating congregations.

  I pointed to the date the story ran, which is included in the computer file of every story that we publish, along with what page it appeared on, which editions it ran, and who wrote it.

  Aubrey stared at the story. “Wonder boy couldn’t have found this a week ago?”

  “At least he found it,” I said.

  She let the story float to her d
esktop. “Thanks, Maddy.”

  “It’s not going to mean a lot of rewriting, I hope.”

  “Couple of paragraphs.”

  I went back to my desk. The news that Annie Bandicoot was on a mission trip to Kentucky the night Buddy Wing was murdered would only take a little rewriting, just as Aubrey said. She was not, after all, identifying possible suspects and their whereabouts that night. She could just mention it in passing: For Annie Bandicoot, who was in eastern Kentucky the night of the murder, distributing food, clothing and toys to the poor, the arrest of Sissy James must have been especially distressing … Aubrey would just have to write something like that.

  Yes, the rewriting would be easy for Aubrey. A quick cut and paste. Rewiring her brain would be harder. She’d been certain, I’m sure, that when the police reopened the case, their investigation would uncover all the evidence they needed to put Annie Bandicoot in that cell now occupied by Sissy James.

  ***

  Aubrey left the newsroom a few minutes after four. I left at five. I didn’t feel like cooking so I had a quick bowl of miniature shredded wheats. Then I opened a package of Fig Newtons and turned on the TV 21 news. They led with a fatal truck-car accident on the interstate and then covered Chief Polceznec’s surprise retirement. Then they went live to Disney World, where Tish Kiddle had apparently fled after the windows of her Lexus were smashed out. It was the first part of her week-long series on Vacation Fun in the Florida Sun. “Tish, my sweet little lamb,” I said to the TV screen, my teeth gooey with fig, “you are no Aubrey McGinty.”

  Chapter 20

  Tuesday, July 11

  I went to bed Monday absolutely certain I’d call in sick the next day. Aubrey’s series on the Buddy Wing murder was starting on Wednesday and that meant Tuesday would be frantic, like the day before a space shuttle launch or a military invasion. There would be a million last-minute changes. There would be unavoidable arguments and ugly fits of egomania. All day long the twin demons of anticipation and dread would be going at each other like a couple of barnyard roosters. Yet the second my eyes popped open, I knew I’d not only be going in, I’d be going in early and staying late. I didn’t want to miss a thing.

  When I got to the paper Aubrey was already at her desk. Tinker was already in his office. I collected my mug and headed for the cafeteria. Eric was already there, drinking Mountain Dews with a couple of the boys from sports. I took my tea back to the morgue and started marking up the paper. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Aubrey. Her hair, not washed for a day or two, was pulled back into a ponytail. Her knees were propped against her desk and her keyboard was on her lap. She’d type a bit, then think a bit, and then yawn and take a sip of coffee, and then check her watch.

  At noon I went to the cafeteria and stared at the vending machines for a while, coming pretty close to buying one of those dreadful ham and cheese sandwiches wedged in the slot like a warped piece of drywall. I went to Ike’s instead. “Morgue Mama, what’s wrong with you today?” he asked when I walked in. “You look like you’re going to corkscrew yourself right out of your pantaloons.”

  “Aubrey’s series on Buddy Wing starts tomorrow,” I said. He’d already poured water for my tea and I pointed to a huge peanut butter cookie in the dessert case.

  “From everything you’ve told me, it’ll all go fine,” he said.

  “It’s what I haven’t told you that worries me,” I said.

  Ike handed me the cookie and waved off my money. “Why you always keeping secrets from me, Maddy?”

  In the afternoon I stayed as busy as I could. Occasionally Aubrey would look at me and pretend she was pulling out her hair. I’d just nod and we’d exchange a tired smile.

  Shortly after five, I saw her hang her purse on her shoulder and head for the elevator. I grabbed my purse and followed. I slipped in just as the door was closing. “Sorry about lunch,” she said.

  I watched her punch the parking deck button. “Going home?” I asked.

  “Shopping,” she said.

  “For anything in particular?”

  “Tranquillity. But I’ll end up buying shoes.”

  And so Aubrey and I drove to the mall in Brinkley, in my Dodge Shadow. The shops were already filled with clothes for fall and winter. I didn’t buy a thing. Aubrey found a sexy pair of pink mules on the clearance table at Payless. I dropped her off at the paper at seven-thirty. “Go home and relax,” I said.

  She squeezed my arm and slid out. Before slamming the door she bent down and wiggled her fingers. I wiggled back. I watched her go inside. We’d been gone all that time and not once did either of us mention her Buddy Wing stories. What a relief that was.

  ***

  At home I tried to eat a tuna fish sandwich and tried to watch TV. I washed my face and brushed my teeth and got into a baggy pair of pajamas. By now Wednesday’s front page was ready to go on the press. Unless something big broke, the press would start rolling precisely at midnight.

  At eleven the phone rang. It was Tinker. “It’s really necessary that I be there?” I asked.

  He just said, “Maddy,” the slow, stern way my father used to say “Maddy” when I tried to buck my chores or listened to my radio too late at night.

  I drove back to the paper.

  Except for a sprinkling of copy editors in metro and sports, the newsroom was empty. I went to Tinker’s office but he wasn’t there. So I got my mug and headed for the cafeteria. The last thing I needed at a quarter to midnight was a hot mug of Darjeeling tea. But I made some.

  I slowly sipped my way back to the newsroom, my pinkies sticking out from my mug like tiny airplane wings. I was standing in the no-man’s-land between the morgue and sports when the elevator doors parted and Aubrey stepped out. As bad as she looked all day, she looked even worse now. Her hair was hanging like broomstraw from a Cleveland Indians ballcap. She was wearing a baggy tee shirt and even baggier sweatpants. She also was wearing the new pink mules. She walked straight for me. “Tinker called you in, too?”

  I sipped and nodded.

  “Christ—I wasn’t asleep five minutes.”

  “That’s five minutes more than I had. Any idea what he wants?”

  Her hands were tucked under her armpits. She was twisting nervously. “Some question about my story—I can’t believe he called you in, too.”

  “I wish he hadn’t.”

  We stood there, Aubrey twisting, me sipping. Finally Tinker popped out of the elevator. Another man, middle-aged and bald, was with him. They walked straight to Aubrey’s desk on the fringe of the metro department. It was a minute before midnight but both were wearing business suits. Tinker motioned for us to join them.

  Tinker introduced the other man. “Aubrey, Maddy, this is Stan Craddock, his firm does legal work for the paper.”

  Aubrey pulled back her hand after one short nibble of a shake. “So there’s a legal problem with my story?”

  “Unfortunately,” Tinker said. “That’s why I wanted Maddy here. She was with you most of the time.” He asked Aubrey to call up her story for Wednesday.

  She sat at her desk and clicked on her monitor. “It’s still running tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  Said Tinker, “That’s why we’re here at midnight.”

  Aubrey typed in her security code. The monitor’s sky blue screen filled with boxes. She called up her story. Aubrey’s back immediately flattened against her chair, as if she’d been struck in the chest by an invisible fist. She had seen the story’s byline:

  By Dale Marabout

  Her eyes went quickly to the story’s first paragraph. So did ours. It was a straightforward, hard news lead, the kind veteran police reporters like Dale Marabout can write in their sleep. It was still in the computer format reporters write in—ragged right, an unflattering sans serif type font:

  HANNAWA—Police early this morning arrested Herald-Union reporter Aubrey McGinty for the November murder of the Rev. Buddy Wing.

  She was expected to be charged and arraigned later today in Common
Pleas Court.

  Detective Scotty Grant called the 24-year-old newspaper reporter’s alleged involvement in the poisoning death of the nationally known television evangelist “both bizarre and frightening.”

  “I’ve been investigating murders in this city for 22 years, and I’ve never seen a case twist around like this,” he said.

  Grant said that McGinty fatally poisoned Wing after being assured of a job with the Herald-Union. “She killed Wing so she could later prove the wrong person was in prison, and make a name for herself,” he said. “She almost got away with it.”

  Aubrey stopped reading. She pressed her hands together, as if to pray, and then rubbed her nose. Her eyes slowly lifted toward me.

  “It was your lies,” I said. I was cowering behind my mug like it was one of those long shields the Crusaders carried. “The first lie made me curious. The second lie made me suspicious. The third convinced me.”

  Aubrey slumped in her chair and wrapped her arms around her waist. “What kind of nonsense have you been telling people?”

  I ignored her silly effort to throw the suspicion onto me. “Lie number one was that gift certificate you used to buy that jacket at Old Navy, after we made our first visit to the Heaven Bound Cathedral.”

  Aubrey rolled her eyes, and made sure Tinker and Stan Craddock could see them roll. “Maddy, I explained all that.”

  “Yes you did. After I confronted you about it.”

  She bristled, just a tiny bit. “After you snooped into my private life.”

  “I told you then, Aubrey. I don’t snoop. I get intrigued.”