Privy to the Dead

by Sheila Connolly

  “I’m at Marty’s. Am I supposed to call the detective back?”

  “Yes. She didn’t sound happy. You need her number?”

  “No, I’ve already got it. Thanks, Eric. If I don’t make it back today, I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Call if you need bail money,” Eric joked, then hung up quickly.

  I tried to collect my thoughts before I made my next call. Maybe Detective Hrivnak had found the killer and this whole thing would go away. Unlikely, I thought. I knew a lot of things she didn’t know about what might have led up to Scruggs’s death, but I doubted she would have paid much attention if I had tried to share them with her. I realized Marty was staring at me. “What?” I demanded.

  “You planning to call the detective any time soon?”

  “Of course. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on, or what I can say, or shouldn’t say, or—you know what I mean.”

  “Just call the woman, will you?” Marty snapped.

  I did and was put through to her quickly. “I’ve got something that might interest you,” Detective Hrivnak began.

  It was unlike her to be coy. “What would that be?”

  “A weapon. An old weapon.”

  Alarm bells started ringing in my head. It could be anything—or it could be Harrison Frazer’s missing gun. Should I play dumb? I decided against it; I wanted this whole mess to be over. “Let me guess: it’s a 1905 Colt pistol.”

  My statement was met by a long moment of silence. “Bingo. We need to talk. Can you come over here?”

  “Can I bring Marty Terwilliger?”

  “If you have to.”

  “See you in fifteen minutes.” I hung up. I could be abrupt, too.

  Marty and I stared at each other wordlessly, but I was pretty sure we were thinking the same thing. Our silent communication was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and Marty leaped out of her chair. “That should be Jimmy—I’ll let him in.” She went down the hall toward the front door, and returned a moment later with James, while I was still puzzling over what Detective Hrivnak thought we should talk about. James looked at me quizzically.

  “Change of plan,” I told him. “We’re going to police headquarters. Now. Can you give us a ride?”

  James’s demeanor changed in an instant, and he morphed into serious FBI agent. “Why?”

  “Because Detective Hrivnak asked. Almost nicely, for her.”

  “I’m coming with you,” James said.

  “So am I,” Marty added.

  I wasn’t about to object. “Then let’s get going.”

  We were standing in the lobby of the Roundhouse in less than fifteen minutes. Detective Hrivnak came down to collect me, took in my escort without comment, and said only, “Follow me.”

  We did, up the elevator, down a hallway, down another hallway, until she opened a door to a small conference room and said, “In here.”

  We went in and sat around the bare table. In the center of the table there was a cardboard box that I knew was the kind used for evidence; inside the box was a firearm that I recognized as a 1905 Colt semiautomatic pistol.

  “Have you seen this before?” the detective began.

  “No, but I know what it is. Where did you get it?”

  “That’s the odd part. We pick up a lot of weapons in this city—old, new, working or not. Nothing unusual there. This one was brought to us by a guy named Joseph Logan. He says he’s been working on your building over on Locust. You know him?”

  “Yes, we’ve met. He’s the foreman of the construction crew that’s working on our renovation there.” This was beginning to feel like a game of Ping-Pong, but I was reluctant to volunteer any information. “Where did he get it?”

  “He says”—her emphasis on that word was troubling—“he found it outside the Society building a couple of days ago. You might remember that we searched that area pretty well after Carnell Scruggs was found dead. Mr. Scruggs worked for Mr. Logan, right?”

  “Yes. You talked with Mr. Logan at the time, right?”

  “We did. He said he’d paid Scruggs what he was owed at the end of the day, and told him he didn’t need him again.”

  The detective paused, as if waiting for me to spew forth a confession of . . . what? I stayed mute.

  Hrivnak continued, unperturbed. “Now, Rich Girard, who works for you, told us that he saw Scruggs take something with him when he left. He says he told Joe Logan about what he saw, and Logan said he’d take care of it. But Logan says he didn’t see Scruggs after he left your building. Nothing from your Society was found on or near Scruggs at that time, although the bartender identified the whatsis later.”

  “The escutcheon,” I said. “And you figured that must have been what Scruggs took away with him?” When Hrivnak nodded, I said cautiously, “Do you have a question?”

  Detective Hrivnak chose her next words carefully. “Do you think this weapon was removed by Scruggs from the Society at that time, on the day he died?”

  I glanced at Marty, who sat like she was carved in stone. I avoided looking at James, who made no move to interrupt. I took a deep breath. “We believe it was. But it’s kind of a long story.”

  Hrivnak sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve got time.”

  “Marty and I think this all started in 1907, when the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society building was being finished.” And I launched into the whole story that my staff and Marty and I had pieced together, with a few comments from Marty. James sat silent, listening, watching. Detective Hrivnak, to her credit, did not interrupt and let Marty and me spin our tale until we came to the present day—and the death of Carnell Scruggs.

  Finally the detective said, “So this gun on the table here was probably used to kill two people in New Jersey in 1907, and one or another Terwilliger knew about it and hid it, and Scruggs just happened to find it last week and take it, and a couple of hours later he’s dead next to your building. What’m I missing?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. Detective Hrivnak looked skeptical. “Seriously, my staff and I have spent over a week putting this information together, based mainly on what’s in our files, and we think we can track the gun from that killing at the shore to the day it was found last week, but once it left the building, we don’t know anything.” And I was afraid to guess.

  “So this Logan guy just happened to find it? Pretty convenient, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t say. He has access to the building and the area behind it, because of his job. Where did he say he’d found it?”

  “In a corner of the alley behind your building.”

  “Is it possible it ended up there when the car hit Mr. Scruggs?” I asked.

  “Maybe. Can’t prove it either way.”

  “Were there prints on it?”

  “Scruggs left prints. Other than that, smudges. It was a cold night—somebody coulda been wearing gloves.”

  I felt an obscure sense of relief: our shaky reasoning about the path of the gun to Scruggs had been proved right. Which brought us no closer to solving the his murder. What did I know about Joe Logan? Not a lot. He’d been recommended by the architect; he’d worked on museum jobs before. He had every right to be where he said he found the gun. “When did he say he found it?”

  “Yesterday. He brought it in this morning. It was kinda dirty, but it didn’t look like it had been sitting out for a week or more.”

  Might as well face this head-on. “You doubt his story?” I asked.

  She studied my face, and I wondered what she was thinking. Would I have any reason to protect Joe Logan? No, I’d barely met the man. Now, if she’d accused Rich or Bob or even Scott the architect, I might have felt some responsibility, but in this case I didn’t have any knowledge to share with her. I didn’t know Joe personally, and I didn’t want to guess what he might have done.
r />   Finally she answered, “Let’s just say I’m keeping an open mind. You have anything else to add?”

  Marty spoke for the first time. “We told you, that gun might have been used in a murder in New Jersey in 1907. Is there any way to find out if the police kept the bullets back then, and see if they’re a match?”

  “You kidding? You want the Philadelphia Police Department to waste time and money on something like that?”

  Marty held up her hands in defeat. “I was just asking. Forget about it.”

  Detective Hrivnak stood up; apparently our meeting was over. “Thanks for coming in. I’m not sure what to do with what you told me, but if I have any more questions, I’ll be in touch.”

  “One more thing,” I said before she could leave. “Who does that weapon belong to now?”

  “What, you want it back?”

  “Well, it was found in our building. If you can’t identify an owner, does that mean it’s ours?”

  Hrivnak snorted. “I’ll look into that. Let me take you to the elevator.”

  We followed her mutely down the hall, descended, went outside to where James had parked his car. “Martha, can I drive you home?” James asked.

  Marty sighed. “Might as well. I’m tired—it’s been a long week. And I’ve still got some thinking to do. I guess that’s the problem when you look into your family history: you never know what you’re going to find. And it’s not all pretty.” She was silent for the rest of the trip to her house.

  When we’d dropped her off and she’d gone inside, I turned to James. “What do we do now?”

  “As far as I can see—unofficially, of course—you don’t have to do anything. You don’t know anything more than you told the detective, do you?”

  “No, I do not. Which is not the same as saying I don’t have suspicions.”

  “Joe Logan,” James said bluntly. “You don’t believe his story?”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Scruggs’s death still could have been a random mugging—somebody attacked Scruggs on the street, maybe followed him from the bar, where he was a little too free with his payday cash, and mugged him, and in the process shoved him into the street. Which doesn’t explain why the escutcheon was gone, or how the gun ended up so far from the street. Wouldn’t a mugger have taken the gun?”

  “If he knew about it. Maybe he couldn’t find it in the dark, and when Scruggs got hit by that car, the mugger panicked and ran. That will probably be the official story.”

  “And that means the case is closed, right?”

  “Yes. You have a problem with that?”

  “I guess not. We need to get back to our business as usual. We’ve already spent too much time on this.”

  “So we can go home now?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  The ride home passed quickly, despite the Friday traffic, but it was dark by the time we arrived home. James pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, but then I grabbed his arm and pointed. “Look.”

  He followed my finger toward the front steps, where a man was sitting. The man stood up as soon as he knew we had seen him, and even in the dark I thought I recognized Joe Logan. Maybe the story wasn’t over yet. “That’s Joe Logan.”

  James the agent was back again. “Let me get out first and see what he wants.” He opened the door on his side and climbed out—and I noticed he kept one hand close to where I knew his gun was. I wasn’t worried that Joe meant us any harm, but it was nice to have James run interference for me. I watched as the two men faced each other but didn’t see any hostility, so I got out of the car.

  Joe looked relieved to see me. “Sorry to bother you folks at home, Nell, but I really need to talk with you, and I didn’t want to do it at the Society. I won’t take long.”

  I glanced at James, and he gave me a barely perceptible nod. “That’s all right, Joe. Come on in and you can tell me what’s bothering you. Oh, have you met James Morrison?”

  “Special Agent Morrison,” James said, although his tone was mild. I wondered if Joe paled, but it was hard to tell in the dim light.

  I entered first and went ahead turning on lights. “You guys want something to drink? Coffee?” Susie Homemaker, that was me, about to chat with a possible murderer accompanied by my FBI agent lover. How had my life come to this?

  Both men declined. I hung up my coat, then said brightly, “Let’s sit in the parlor,” although we had barely enough seats for the three of us. When we were settled, I said, “What’s this about, Joe?”

  “I assume you know about that gun I turned in to the police?” he began.

  “Yes. We just came from there. Did you tell them the whole story?”

  “Not exactly. Do you mind if I tell it my own way? It’s hard enough without interruptions. I’ll answer any of your questions after.”

  “Go on,” I prompted.

  He nodded, looking relieved. “You already know that I hired Scruggs for short-term jobs. I had known the guy slightly for a few years, and I felt sorry for him, so I tried to throw some work his way. He’d always been honest and worked hard. Last week his part of the job at the Society was done, so I paid him for his work for the day, and he left. Then this other guy who works for you came to me and said he might have seen Scruggs pocket something and thought I should know.

  “I knew where Carnell hung out after work—he lived over past Spruce, but he had a favorite bar on Chestnut—so I went looking for him. I didn’t plan to accuse him, just ask if maybe he’d taken something accidentally. I found him where I expected to and we talked. Turned out he had picked up something he found—he thought it didn’t matter if he took it along, because it seemed like trash to him.”

  “The escutcheon,” I said.

  “If that’s what you call that brass thing,” Jose said. “I told him I wasn’t sure what it was or if it was worth anything, but he’d been wrong to take it. You know he was kind of subpar mentally? He wasn’t angry. He apologized, and he gave it back to me. I thought we’d settled things. I bought him a drink, and we left maybe half an hour later. He started walking toward home, and I tagged along because I’d left my car parked near the Society.

  “So we’re walking along Locust Street and I see he’s got something else tucked in his waistband, something bigger. So I asked, ‘What’s that?’ And he gets all defensive about it. Says, ‘Nothing.’ But he’s acting odd, so I ask him again. And he tells me it’s his, and finally he pulls out this gun he was hiding. Now, I’d worked with Carnell for a while, and he’s not a violent man, and he had no reason to have a gun. So I look closer and realize it’s kind of dirty, and not new. So I ask, ‘Where’d you get that?’ And he wouldn’t tell me—he tried to walk away. And by then I was really suspicious, so I asked, ‘Did you take that from the job today?’ And he tries to lie, but finally he said, ‘What if I did? Somebody threw it away. I found it. So now it’s mine.’ And I told him, ‘You have to give it back,’ and I held out my hand for it.”

  Joe stopped and swallowed hard. “And he started backing away, shaking his head, and then he was in the street and this car came along . . . and you know what happened then.”

  “Joe, why did you leave?” I asked gently. “Maybe you could have helped him.”

  He shook his head. “That car hit him head-on, and he must’ve flown about twenty feet through the air. I can still hear that thud.”

  Was it illegal to leave the scene of the accident? I had no clue, but I had a feeling it was. “And the gun?”

  “When Carnell was hit, he was holding it in his hand. It went flying right over my head, but I saw where it landed and picked it up.”

  “Did you call nine-one-one?”

  “I could see the woman in the car had her phone in her hand, and I think there was someone else coming from Locust Street. Nobody noticed me, so . . . I kind of left. I’m sorry. I should have stayed.
But I swear, I never touched the guy!” Logan protested. “It was his own fault! He just backed straight into the street without looking.”

  “Why’d you turn the gun in?” James asked quietly.

  “I didn’t want the damn thing. It was what got Carnell killed.”

  “But you just dropped it at headquarters and left, didn’t you?” James added.

  Joe looked away. “I told the cops that I’d found it, and that was true. I kind of changed when I found it, is all.” Then he looked at us squarely. “Look, I could have dumped it in the river, or left it in a Dumpster somewhere, couldn’t I? I’m not a bad person. I’ve never been in trouble with the police. I was trying to get back something that Carnell stole, that wasn’t his. I never meant to hurt him.” He struggled with himself for a moment before asking, “You going to turn me in?”

  I looked at James, who finally spoke. “I would urge you to go to the police yourself and tell them what you’ve just told us. If they have no evidence against you, they’ll probably be lenient. But if they find out you’re covering something up, it’ll only get worse.”

  Joe sighed. “I guess that’s what I expected you’d say. I know it’s the right thing to do.” Joe stood up. “Thanks for listening to me, and I’m sorry for any trouble I’ve caused. I’ll be on my way now.”

  James escorted him to the door, and I thought I heard the murmur of voices from them before I heard the door shut. When James came back to the parlor I said, “Is today over yet?” I felt exhausted.

  “Close enough. I’m guessing you need food and drink, not necessarily in that order. Follow me to the kitchen.”

  I followed.

  In the kitchen, James doffed his jacket—and his gun—and set about making sandwiches. I was content to watch, and he had food on the table in no more than five minutes. As he worked, James said, “You did a good job with this.”

  “High praise indeed,” I countered, spreading more mayo on my sandwich. “Aren’t you glad you stayed out of it? Although your imposing if silent presence was invaluable.”

  He shook his head. “You put the information together in ways I never could. In all honesty, I will admit that the atavistic—or do I mean Neanderthal?—part of me wanted to jump in and protect you, but you didn’t need it. Professionally, I had no place in this investigation.”