Stone Cold Dead

by James W. Ziskin

  That evening, there was no need to pretend to eat like a bird; I was full from the bread and drinks. I toyed with my food, spreading it around the plate to give the appearance that I’d eaten more than I had, but there was so much of it. Mike noticed, I’m sure, but he kept it to himself. Good thing, too, as I have a horror of men who comment on how much or how little I eat.

  “So, how’s your story coming along?” he asked between forkfuls of veal.

  “You’d think with the discovery of the body and all the arrests, there would be more clarity in this case,” I said, just as the waitress arrived with my third drink. I blushed at Mike.

  “The chief says it was the Figlio kid,” said Mike.

  “I doubt the DA will go along with that. He’s got a letter from the victim to Joey Figlio, outlining their plans to run off together. It would seem that Joey and Darleen were in love.”

  “But they’re just teenagers,” said Mike. “What do kids know about being in love?”

  “Are you joking?” I asked. “Kids know better than anyone the passion, the frustration, the hopelessness of love. Weren’t you ever in love?”

  Mike blushed but didn’t answer. Just then Jimmy Tedesco appeared at our table.

  “You don’t like my food, Ellie?” he said to me, hands on hips.

  “I’m afraid I had a big lunch,” I answered, immediately regretting the lie. What was Mike going to think of me now? “It’s delicious, Jimmy. Can you wrap it for me to take home?”

  He smiled and said sure. “I can’t stay mad at you, Ellie. I can’t afford to lose a customer who drinks so much.”

  Now I blushed, but Mike was still wearing his poker face.

  “Hey, Mikey,” said Jimmy, slapping my date on the shoulder. “How’s your old man doing?”

  “A little better,” said Mikey. “He has difficulty speaking since the stroke, but he’s moving around now.”

  “Give him my best,” said Jimmy and he started back for the bar.

  I called him back to ask a question. “I need to know if the river out there by the lock was frozen on December twenty-first. Any chance you remember?”

  “Why do you need to know that?”

  “It’s a bet I have with my editor,” I said.

  “Well, the river was definitely frozen at some point in December. I know who’ll remember,” and he went to the bar and returned moments later with Billy Valicki, one of the pickled regulars who kept Tedesco’s in business.

  “Billy, what day did you and Tony have that bet about the river?”

  “Which one?” asked Billy.

  “You know, the one where he bet you couldn’t walk across to the other side.”

  “Oh, yeah, that one. That was about a week before Christmas. I remember because I got my wife a present with the two dollars I won.”

  “It was a Saturday, right?” asked Jimmy. “I made book on whether you’d make it or not. The house never loses.”

  Billy glared at Jimmy. “You were taking bets against me? What were you going to do if I fell through the ice?”

  “The important thing is that you made it.” Jimmy shoved Billy back toward the bar, then turned to me. “So the river was frozen on the seventeenth, and the temperature didn’t rise above twenty for a couple of weeks after that. Does that help you?”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I said, my theory sunk. Darleen’s body could not have been thrown into the river at Lock 11. If it had been, it would have lain in plain sight on the ice for three weeks.

  “Something wrong, Ellie?” asked Mike.

  “It’s just this one sticking point in my story,” I said. “I think Darleen Hicks was murdered near her home in those snow hills. But if so, how did her body get to Lock 10 in Cranesville?”

  “Someone dumped her in the river, of course,” said Mike.

  “Yes, but where? The closest lock to her farm is that one right outside. Number 11. But the river was frozen over on December twenty-first.”

  “I see,” he said. “I’ll tell you where the river wasn’t frozen on December twenty-first.”

  I squinted at him in the dark. “Where?”

  “The Mill Street Bridge. The water was still flowing underneath.”

  The Mill Street Bridge? Right in the center of town. Who would be so bold, or stupid enough, to toss a body into the river there? I really hadn’t considered it, perhaps because it was so obvious and risky. But Mike said the river had been flowing on the 21st of December.

  “How much water was flowing?” I asked.

  Mike took a moment to recollect properly. Then he said it was a steady stream, at least twenty feet wide, down the middle channel of the river. Right down the middle.

  “How can you be so sure it was December twenty-first?” I asked.

  “That’s easy,” he said. “I remember because I made a traffic stop on the bridge after one a.m. that day.”

  “Was it the twenty-first or the twenty-second?” I asked, my skin beginning to tingle, the sensation traveling from my shoulders up through my neck to the top of my head.

  “The twenty-second morning,” he said.

  “And who did you stop on the bridge?”

  “I didn’t actually stop him. He was already stopped on the bridge. Right there half way between the South Side and downtown.” He shook his head. “The guy was so drunk, he was crying and pleading with me not to arrest him. He said he’d lose his job.”

  “Mike, who was it?” I demanded.

  “It was the assistant principal,” he said, taken aback by my tone. “What’s his name? Brossard.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I grilled Mike for the next half hour about the night of December 21. He said that he’d been cruising the South Side, trying to stay warm by keeping the squad car moving. It was nearly time for his shift to end, so he was heading back to the station on the north side of the river. That’s when he came across a sedan idling in the northbound lane of the bridge. Just sitting there chugging exhaust into the frigid night air. Grabbing his flashlight, Mike approached the car on foot and tapped on the driver’s window. After a second tap, the driver rolled down the window, releasing a draft of warm air along with the strong odor of alcohol. Mike invited the driver to get out of the car and walk a straight line. But the driver confessed straightaway that he’d drunk too much at the superintendent’s Christmas banquet. He broke down and wept, begged the officer not to arrest him, even offered a bribe. And, in the end, Mike Palumbo gave him a stern lecture and a warning. He followed the driver home, just to be sure he made it without incident.

  “But why didn’t you arrest him?” I asked.

  Mike shrugged, by now uncomfortable with my interrogation. “I felt sorry for the guy,” he said. “And he was the assistant principal, so I didn’t want to see him in hot water.”

  “And you say he was heading north over the bridge? Where was he coming from? Where was he going?”

  “I don’t know, Ellie,” he said.

  “Sorry, Mike,” I said, realizing I had come on a little strong.

  “Sure,” he said. “Maybe it’s time to call it a night. Tomorrow’s Monday, after all.”

  When Mike dropped me off, he followed me up onto the porch. Nothing to get excited about. If my oddball behavior, heavy drinking, wasted food, and lying hadn’t driven him off, the third-degree questioning surely had. He was just being polite or just being a cop.

  “I want to make sure your place is safe,” he said. “You’ve had quite a few unwanted visitors lately.”

  We climbed the stairs quietly, and I turned the key in the kitchen door. Mike entered first, switched on the lights, and checked each room, one by one, for intruders. The last room was my bedroom. I thought he’d played it quite cool and still managed to make it into my bedroom. But then he walked back out and pronounced the place clear. My heart sank.

  I accompanied him to the door, resigned to writing the evening off as a bust. But before he left, he asked if I was free Friday.

  “I’ve got a
high-school basketball game to cover,” I said.

  “What about Saturday?”

  “I’ll check my calendar,” I said. “I might have to fend off a pack of juvenile delinquents and murderers.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven,” he said. “And eat something this time. You don’t want to fill up on bread.”

  MONDAY, JANUARY 16, 1961

  My week got off to an early start. Arriving at the office at seven, I sat down to rewrite my murder timeline. I was now sure that the body had been tossed off the Mill Street Bridge; it was the only possibility. And before I could convict Louis Brossard of murder in my mind, I reviewed what I knew and didn’t know. What had he been doing on the Mill Street Bridge at such a late hour? Why had he been on the south side of the river? He lived in Northampton Court, after all, which was near the northern limits of the city. I knew he’d attended the Christmas banquet earlier that evening, but that had ended before ten thirty. And besides, Isobel’s Restaurant was on the north side of the river, on the West End. What had happened to Louis Brossard between ten thirty and one thirty in the morning? Had he been drunk at the banquet or had he fueled up somewhere else? There were plenty of taverns on the South Side, of course, so it was possible he’d tied one on over there. Or maybe he’d returned to the snow hills after the banquet to dig out Darleen’s body and deposit it in the river.

  I wrote a note to Norma Geary, asking her to make some inquiries for me while I was tied up in editorial meetings later that morning. I slipped the envelope under her typewriter cover, where she would find it first thing upon her arrival.

  Georgie Porgie was seated in the City Room for the Monday morning meeting, a large envelope on his lap and a smug grin on his lips. The meeting began as usual with a recap of the weekend’s breaking news. Charlie had a bone to pick with the entire staff.

  “On Saturday, we put out a special early edition,” he began. “George, here, broke a big story on the Hicks girl and her unused bus ticket.” George beamed and sat up in his chair. “But then what happened?” asked Charlie. “We all took the rest of the weekend off to rest on our laurels while I was out of town. Does anyone know that they found the girl’s body on Saturday? And arrested three suspects?”

  There was silence in the room.

  “I know that,” I volunteered.

  “Of course you do,” barked Charlie. “Everyone knows it now. What we needed was someone to get on it Saturday. Artie Short just chewed my head off because we missed the biggest break on this story. Now we have nothing for this afternoon’s edition.”

  I waited for the echo of Charlie’s voice to fade before serving him his crow with a knife and fork. But Georgie Porgie beat me to the punch.

  “I have here a photo of the Figlio boy,” he said. “It’s a school picture.”

  “And what am I going to do with that?” snapped Charlie. “We don’t have any of the details of what happened, no pictures of the lock where the body was found, nothing to excite readers.”

  “How about a photograph of Joey Figlio being arrested?” I asked. Everyone turned to look at me. “And two rolls of film of the sheriff and the hearse at Lock 10 on Saturday afternoon? Oh, and I have four articles for you. If you review them right away, all four should make the front page of today’s edition, this time with my byline,” and I threw a glance at George Walsh.

  Charlie stared open-mouthed at me. The room was silent.

  “I was here on Saturday afternoon when a tip came in about the body,” I explained. “I was on the scene minutes after they fished the body out of the dam gate.”

  “This meeting is over,” said Charlie, a huge smile spreading over his lips. “Ellie, come with me.”

  Once we were in Charlie’s office, I told him about George Walsh having stolen my story for his big scoop.

  “That’s a pretty serious accusation,” he said. “You want to be careful about saying things like that.”

  “Just ask Frank Olney who discovered the bus ticket in Darleen’s locker. I did.”

  “Really?” he said. “Then why didn’t you print the story?”

  “The sheriff asked me to wait, and I did.”

  Charlie almost blew a gasket. “If Artie Short ever heard that, he’d fire you on the spot. Hell, I should fire you for it right now. The press has to be independent, Ellie. You know that. How could you do such a thing?”

  “I know,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me. I feel bad enough already.”

  “I’m telling you now if you ever do anything like that again, I will fire you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

  Charlie was steamed. He wanted to toss me out of his office, but we had to discuss the stories I’d done over the weekend. He glowered at me as I produced the four stories from my purse. He read them quickly and softened. Then he congratulated me on my excellent work.

  “Okay, Charlie,” I said, ready to bring out the big guns. “I’ve got more news, and I need your advice. I know who killed Darleen Hicks.”

  He stared dumbly at me.

  “I know who killed her,” I repeated.

  “Who?”

  I took a seat in front of his desk and smoothed my skirt. Charlie waited.

  “Louis Brossard,” I announced.

  “Brossard,” he mumbled. “I know that name from somewhere. Who is he?”

  “Assistant principal of the junior high school.”

  Charlie choked. “And you say he killed this girl? Why do you think an upstanding school administrator would murder a teenage girl?”

  “At this point, all I have is circumstantial evidence. Not enough to nail him.”

  “Like what?”

  “He was collared by the New Holland police on the Mill Street Bridge in the middle of the night after Darleen Hicks disappeared. Drunk and weeping.”

  “So? What’s the bridge have to do with this?”

  “You’re always telling me you like good science stories, Charlie,” I said. “On December twenty-first, the Mohawk River was frozen over completely from Canajoharie past Lock 11 on the West End of New Holland.”

  “Yes, I remember. It was a rare sight. What of it?”

  “Well, the river was not frozen under the Mill Street Bridge.”

  The penny dropped. “So that’s where the body must been thrown into the river,” he said, smiling broadly. “Ellie, that’s brilliant. How did you come up with that?”

  “Just trying to retrace the journey the body must have taken.”

  Charlie sat down and scribbled some notes into his pad. “I see your point, though,” he said as he wrote. “There’s no proof that this Brossard fellow is guilty, but his presence on the bridge certainly looks bad for him. Does he live anywhere near there?”

  I shook my head. “Northampton Court. And his car was traveling south to north over the bridge. What was he doing on the South Side at that hour?”

  “Any other circumstantial evidence to support your theory?”

  “Just that Brossard was deputy headmaster at St. Winifred’s Academy in Hudson before he came to New Holland.”

  “And? What’s the school have to do with this?”

  “A girl disappeared from St. Winifred’s at the time Brossard was there. They never found her.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie, looking up at me. “I’m with you. I think you’ve got the right guy. Now, how do we prove it?”

  “That’s just it, Charlie,” I said. “I don’t know. If there were some physical evidence in his car, maybe that would do it. But it’s been four weeks. Surely he’s had ample opportunity to clean out the trunk of his car.”

  “Still, we could ask the city police to take this on. They’ll get a warrant and scour his car and his house while they’re at it.”

  “I’d rather go to the sheriff for that,” I said. “The city police think Joey Figlio killed Darleen. Besides, she was from the Town of Florida and was found in Cranesville. This isn’t the city police’s jurisdiction.”


  “Good point,” said Charlie. “And it won’t hurt that Frank Olney is a good pal of yours. Okay, so you go to the sheriff. Any other ideas?”

  “I’m going to talk to Brossard this morning,” I said. “And I’ve asked Norma Geary to contact St. Winifred’s.”

  Charlie whistled. “Great. Okay, you’re on this exclusively. Forget about your other stories. I’ll take care of them. You get on this Brossard guy. Just be careful, Ellie. You never know how he might react.”

  “Okay, Chief,” I said and stood to leave.

  “What about your film?” he asked.

  “In the lab with Bobby. Should be ready by now.”

  “Great work, Ellie,” he said, all smiles, as he walked me out the door. “Where can I get ten more like you?”

  I thought about reminding him that he’d nearly fired me five minutes earlier, but thought better of it. I would surely need his good will again, and men, like dogs, don’t appreciate having their noses rubbed in their mistakes.

  Norma Geary strolled by my desk as I was grabbing my coat and purse. She made a subtle hand gesture for me to follow her. She took me to the break room beyond the steno pool. There were some tables, a coffee pot, and a cigarette machine. The room was empty at ten past ten.

  “I telephoned St. Winifred’s as soon as I got your message,” she whispered. “They weren’t too helpful, but they confirmed that Mr. Brossard used to work there. He was the assistant headmaster from August 1954 to June 1957. I also called the junior high and confirmed that he was hired as assistant principal in the summer of ’57.”

  “How did you manage to get all that information?”

  “I said I was with the New Holland Savings Bank. Routine check for a car loan,” she smiled. “Everyone likes to help a person buy a new car.”