“What about the girl who disappeared from St. Winifred’s?” I asked.
“Well, I couldn’t very well ask the school about that. Not if I was calling from a bank. So I called the Register-Star in Hudson. That’s the local daily. The woman I spoke to remembered the case very well and said that it was never solved. The poor girl just disappeared from the school one day and was never seen again.”
“Any other details?”
“She said there was plenty written about it in the paper. Some articles were even picked up by the AP.”
I thought it was a long shot to pursue that angle at that moment. If Brossard had been involved in the St. Winifred’s girl’s disappearance, there would always be time to comb through old newspapers later on. For now, I wanted to know about Darleen Hicks, and Louis Brossard was the man I wanted to ask about her.
“Nice work, Norma,” I said, standing to leave.
“But Miss Stone,” she said. “Don’t you want to see the article?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“The article on the St. Winifred’s girl. I’ve got it right here,” and she produced a yellowing page from an October 1956 edition of the New Holland Republic.
“How did you . . . ? Where did you get this?”
“From the archives in the basement,” she said. “The lady at the Register-Star gave me the date of the girl’s disappearance, and since she said the AP had picked up the story, I thought we might have run it.” She smiled. “We did.”
Why was Norma Geary marooned in the steno pool? And the far end of the steno pool, for that matter. This woman was a dynamo. Charlie might not find ten more of me, but I was going to tell him about Norma Geary.
The AP article gave the details of the case. A thirteen-year-old girl, Geraldine Duffy, a boarded student at St. Winifred’s Academy, had gone missing from school grounds after hours on Thursday, October 25. Local police interviewed school officials, students, and local witnesses, but no trace of the girl was found. A Wirephoto accompanied the brief article: a rough, grainy picture of a beautiful girl smiling in her school portrait. I bowed my head and rubbed the bridge of my nose, drawing a deep breath. Geraldine Duffy was wearing braces and an all-too-familiar mischievous grin.
“Good morning, Mrs. Worth,” I said, presenting myself to the secretary at the junior high.
“Miss Stone,” she smiled. “What brings you here today?”
“I’d like to see Mr. Brossard.”
“May I tell him what this is about?”
“Just a couple of questions about Darleen Hicks,” I said.
“What an awful end to the story,” she said. “I heard they found her body in the woods.”
“You did? From whom?”
“My friend, Helen Semple told me. But it’s all over the school today. Buried in the woods!”
I always like to correct misinformation when I hear it, but in this case, I thought it better not to. Just taking a page from Frank Olney. The whole town would know the real story in a couple of hours anyway. As soon as the afternoon edition came out.
Mrs. Worth announced me, and soon I was seated in my usual chair before Louis Brossard. I studied his features as he wished me good morning. Nothing to betray a psychopathic killer of young girls. His broad face was inviting; his smile, genuine; his eyes, sincere. But that’s just what a psychopathic killer would want you to believe about him.
“Is something wrong, Miss Stone?” he asked finally, rousing me from my thoughts. “You look confused.”
“I have a couple of questions for you, Mr. Brossard,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “Anything you want.”
I drew a deep breath. Here goes. “Where were you on the night of December twenty-first of last year?”
His smile wilted into a fretful glower. He squirmed in his seat and rearranged the pencil before him on the desk.
“I’ve already told you where I was that evening,” he said. “There was the superintendent’s banquet at Isobel’s.”
“Yes,” I said. “Ziti and meatballs. I even saw the photograph in the paper. You were sitting with Mrs. Worth.”
“That’s correct. Then why the question?” He was trying to build a smile, but it looked ready to collapse.
“Where were you before the banquet?” I asked. There went the smile.
“I was here in my office,” he said. “It was a normal school day.”
“The school day ends at three thirty, and the banquet didn’t start until seven.”
“I have plenty of work on my desk beyond normal school hours,” he said, managing some indignation.
“So you didn’t leave your office? Or the school until you went to Isobel’s?”
“Precisely.”
“Was there anyone here in the office who might be able to confirm that?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Isn’t it true that Darleen Hicks asked you for money, just as she asked Ted Russell?” I said, switching gears to keep him off balance. But I hadn’t forgotten my previous question; I intended to ask everyone—Mrs. Worth, Principal Endicott, and the janitor—if Louis Brossard had happened to leave early after school on December 21.
“That’s preposterous,” he said. “Who told you that?”
“Ted Russell.”
“Well, it’s a lie. And I certainly did not give her any money like that fool Ted did.”
“I think she did ask you,” I said.
“Too bad you can’t prove it,” he said with a forced laugh.
“But I can prove it. I have a handwritten letter from Darleen to Joey Figlio. She noted down everyone she’d hoped to get money from. And your name is on the list. Fifteen dollars’ worth.”
I’d cornered him. “That proves nothing. Just her word against mine. I swear I did not give her any money. And Ted Russell gave her twenty dollars. He told me so himself. And he admitted it to you. Why aren’t you asking him where he was on December twenty-first?”
“I’m talking to you right now,” I said.
“Well, this interview is over,” he announced, rising from his chair to indicate that I should leave.
“I can go,” I said. “But are you sure you want to send me packing with the information you’ve given so far? That you lied about Darleen Hicks asking you for money? That you can’t account for your whereabouts on the night she disappeared?”
“Why do you suspect me, Miss Stone?” he asked. “What have I done to make you think I am capable of such a thing?”
I was ready to play one of my trumps, and I intended to study his reaction very carefully.
“Geraldine Duffy,” I said slow and plain.
Brossard’s eyes actually grew, and his mouth dropped open just a bit before he caught himself. He couldn’t very well deny that he knew who she was, though, so he made the best of it.
“That poor girl,” he said. “I certainly had nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“Then why did you leave St. Winifred’s?”
“I already told you. Better prospects. A man has a right to build his career, doesn’t he?”
“The timing is curious,” I said. “Just months after Geraldine Duffy disappeared, you left for greener pastures.”
“That’s a coincidence. One had nothing to do with the other. Now, you’ve made some heinous accusations here, Miss Stone, and I’m trying to hold my temper. But—”
“I haven’t made any accusations, Mr. Brossard,” I interrupted. “I’ve merely asked you questions that you have answered, some truthfully, others not.”
“I did not kill those girls!” he yelled, and pounded his fist on the table, causing his pencil and glass of water to jump into the air. “Now I’ll ask you to leave.”
“What were you doing on the Mill Street Bridge at one thirty in the morning after Darleen Hicks disappeared?”
Just then Mrs. Worth burst through the door. “What was that noise?” she asked. “We heard shouting.”
“Sorry about that,�
� said Brossard, forcing another smile. He could do nothing to the hide the red in his face, though. “I dropped a book on the floor. Miss Stone and I are just talking here. Everything’s fine.”
Mrs. Worth withdrew, casting a severe look my way. I nodded that it was okay. Once the door was closed, Brossard started to pace.
“Look,” he said. “I apologize for losing my temper there. But you must understand that I’m innocent, Miss Stone. It’s very disturbing to be asked such questions.”
“You don’t have to answer them,” I said.
“But how would that look? You’ll print it in your paper, make me appear guilty for the whole town to see.”
“What were you doing on the Mill Street Bridge at one thirty in the morning?” I repeated.
He retook his seat, his mind working furiously to find an escape. He wiped his perspired brow, smoothed his oiled hair, and took several deep breaths. I waited.
“I have . . . a problem,” he began, his face burning fuchsia, nearly purple. I didn’t enjoy this, but I was damned if I would let him off the hook. In contrast to his red face, I couldn’t shake the blue of Darleen’s dead skin from my thoughts. “It’s something my father struggled with as well,” he continued. “I’m a dipsomaniac. It’s a terrible curse, and I pray to Jesus and all the saints for deliverance each day. But there are times when I relapse. I’m weak.”
I watched him, his shaking hands, the sweat on his forehead, the licking of his lips. He wasn’t looking at me. He just stared at the floor, ashamed, as if he were cataloguing his sins to an invisible priest in a confessional.
“December twenty-first was one of those days when I succumbed. I drank and drank at that banquet. First wine, then a Manhattan. Then three more. Manhattans have always been my weakness. And that day I was thirsty. So thirsty. I couldn’t stop, I tell you. Even when Mr. Endicott pulled me aside and told me to get a grip on myself, I still snuck into the bar and downed a shot of rye.”
I listened intently, my mouth clamped shut, even though I wanted to scream bloody murder at him. All I could think of was substituting child molester for dipsomaniac in his confession.
I’m a child molester, a child killer. It’s a terrible curse, and I pray to Jesus and all the saints for deliverance every day. But there are times when I relapse. I’m weak.
“So that’s how I ended up on the bridge at that hour. I was drunk, Miss Stone,” he said, looking to me for pity or forgiveness. But all he got in return was another question he couldn’t answer.
“Why were you coming from the South Side? Where had you been?”
The intercom on Brossard’s desk buzzed. It was Mrs. Worth again. She said Mr. Endicott wanted to speak to him urgently. Brossard’s head fell into his hands, but then he must have seen his chance to escape. He wiped his eyes and brow with a handkerchief and excused himself. I was sure he wasn’t coming back.
If I had harbored any doubts about Louis Brossard’s guilt before my interview with him, they were gone now. The man seemed a tortured pervert to me. Remorseful, perhaps, deep down, and ashamed of his base urges and his inability to control them, but he knew what he had done was wrong and would condemn him to hell until Judgment Day. Make no mistake, Louis Brossard was a strict Catholic in anguish. I felt some pity for him. But not enough to take my foot off the gas until he’d admitted what he’d done.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“I’m not going to release Ted Russell, Ellie” said Frank Olney. “The DA says he can’t make a case, but I still think he’s my best bet. It won’t hurt to hold him a little longer.”
“Come on, Frank,” I said. “He’s innocent.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Well, I can tell you who killed Darleen Hicks. And, in case you want to score some points with some of your fellow cops downstate, I’ll give you the name of the man who murdered a thirteen-year-old girl named Geraldine Duffy in Hudson three years ago.”
“What are you on about?” he asked, eyeing me as he rocked in his chair.
“Louis Brossard murdered Darleen Hicks.”
He stopped rocking and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his desk. “The assistant principal?”
I nodded. “I know he was on the Mill Street Bridge at one thirty in the early morning hours of December twenty-second.”
Frank stared at me. “And?”
“And the river was frozen from Canajoharie to Lock 11 on the west end of town on December twenty-first. The only place the body could have been dropped into the water was from the Mill Street Bridge.”
“How do you know he was there?”
I cleared my throat. “A city cop told me he found him there, right in the middle of the bridge, dead drunk at one thirty in the morning on the twenty-second. He was weeping in his car. He had no business being there at that hour unless it was to throw Darleen Hicks into the water.”
Frank thought it over. He liked the idea, but wanted to know more. What other evidence, for example, did I have to point the finger at Brossard?
“Darleen asked him for money,” I said. “And he lied to me about that.”
“She asked Russell, too,” he pointed out.
“But she wasn’t pregnant.”
“Sure, but Ted Russell wouldn’t have known that. He still might have wanted to keep her from talking.”
“Except that she was a virgin.”
Frank threw me an incredulous look. “Where did you come up with that?”
“The autopsy,” I said. “So that proves that Ted Russell is telling the truth when he says he never had his way with Darleen Hicks.”
Frank mulled it over. “The girl still could have lied about having an affair with her teacher, but if she was a virgin like you say . . .”
“I think she was all bark and no bite. Brossard swears he didn’t give her money, and he would have been under the same threat as Ted Russell. And as far as I’ve heard, Darleen never told anyone that she was sleeping with Louis Brossard.”
“So tell me your theory, Ellie,” he said. “How did this happen?”
“I think Brossard followed Darleen from school that day. Maybe he saw her leaving the parking lot after her bus drove off. Then she hailed a taxi on Mill Street.”
“Then isn’t that the end of it for Brossard?”
“No, I believe Brossard became obsessed with Darleen during his investigation of the Ted Russell scandal. This looked like the best chance he’d ever get: Darleen had missed the bus, there were no witnesses. Maybe he could get her alone. So he followed the cab, which dropped her about two and half miles from her home. She was alone on the side of the highway, and it was nearly dark.”
“So he just rolled up, and she got in?”
“Why not? Maybe he lured her with a promise of the money she’d asked for. Or maybe it was just cold enough to accept. He was the assistant principal, after all. Must have seemed safe enough.”
“Then what?”
“He drove her to the snow hills, where things got messy.”
“Wait a minute,” said Frank, raising a hand. “You think he drove right past her house and didn’t let her out?”
I thought it over. Frank made a good point. Driving her past her own farm posed a huge risk. She could have easily jumped from the car, given the slow speeds cars traveled on that road. And if Dick Metzger had been in the fields near the road, he might have seen.
“You’re right,” I said. He must have taken her to the next turnoff on 5S. There’s a little road on the other side of the snow hills. I visited it with Gus Arnold. He drank a pint of rye in that very spot after finishing his route that day.”
Frank’s ears perked up. “He was there? And you don’t suspect him?”
“I do. He certainly was in the right place. But there’s too much smoke with Brossard.”
“So what do you think I should do? Arrest Brossard? Arrest the bus driver?”
I shook my head. “There’s no proof. Maybe you could search his place. His car for sure.”
<
br /> “I’m going to talk to the cops down in Hudson. I want to know if this Brossard fellow was ever on their radar. What about you, Ellie?”
“I’m waiting for you to get a warrant.”
There was quite a stir when the afternoon edition came out. All four of my stories made the front page, as the Darleen Hicks case was now big news. The discovery of the body made it hard to ignore. And there was salacious interest all around, what with the taxi driver’s role and the two men arrested in my apartment. George Walsh also had a piece in the paper that afternoon: “Walsh’s Witticisms,” five jokes, three riddles, and a caricature of the author. I was already planning to have the cartoon image enlarged and framed for display on my desk. As a bonus, Charlie told me that George’s copy had been riddled with typographic errors.
“More than the usual misspellings,” he said with annoyance as I tried not to laugh. “It’s as if he typed it with boxing gloves on. What’s wrong with that man?”
I was sipping some coffee in the back booth at Fiorello’s at about six. Fadge and I had been discussing the case, and I was making notes for an article linking the Hudson girl’s disappearance to Brossard and Darleen Hicks. I wasn’t ready to go to press with it, of course, just outlining the research I would carry out. Fadge wasn’t convinced about the assistant principal and was more interested in the bus driver. I told him Gus Arnold was still on my list, but right now I was 99.44 percent sure that Louis Brossard was my man. Then the phone rang. It was Charlie Reese, looking for me. I slipped into the phone booth and closed the folding door.
“What is it, Chief?” I said.
“The sheriff’s looking for you. He said he and the DA got a search warrant for Louis Brossard’s place, and he’s going over there now. Olney says you can’t go in with him, but he may have a statement for the press if you wait outside.”
“I’m on my way,” I said and hung up.
Three county cars and the DA’s Chrysler New Yorker were parked outside the Northampton Court Apartments. Frank and the Thin Man were inside Brossard’s place, while Pat Halvey and Stan Pulaski stood guard outside, warding off the curious.
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