No Stone Unturned

by James W. Ziskin

  “About twenty-one,” said Fadge, pulling back to his position against the register. “And, by the way, romantic isn’t the right word.”

  “She must be fifty years old,” I said, ignoring him. “What’s he see in her?”

  “Who can say? Every Saturday night I see the prettiest girls in high school swooning over the cheapest punks and greasers in town. Nice, smart girls. Even girls like Jordan Shaw.”

  “I thought she went out with Tom Quint,” I said.

  “She did, but there was a goon she took up with for a while that last summer before college. His name was Pukey Boyle. A hood, a loser who never graduated high school. I kicked him out of here about five years ago for stealing magazines. After that, he used to wait in his car while Jordan bought him cigarettes. Now he sews fingers into gloves at Fowler’s Mill down by the river.”

  “Seems like a strange match,” I said, recalling Judge Shaw’s shudder earlier that evening. “What do you suppose she saw in him?”

  Fadge shrugged his shoulders and explained that a lot of New Holland girls displayed similar poor judgment at about that age.

  “Puerto Rican boys don’t seem to be immune, either,” I added.

  Fadge smiled. “A young kid like that has a roll with an experienced lady . . . I’m sure he was overwhelmed by the whole thing. Sex is pretty scary at first.”

  “Sure,” I mumbled, “when you’re doing it with Jean Trent.”

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 1960

  I rose the next morning at about five thirty. After dressing, I ran downstairs to fetch the Schenectady and Albany papers from the stoop in front of Fiorello’s. Fadge was always late, and people just took papers from the bundles left by the drivers. Back at my kitchen table, I found a two-column item on New Holland’s murder in the second section of the Gazette. “BODY FOUND IN NEW HOLLAND WOOD,” announced the headline. The article was thin. I couldn’t believe my luck until I noticed the byline: Harvey Dunnolt, Montgomery County Bureau Chief. He obviously hadn’t bothered to look into the story; he didn’t even have the victim’s name. Harvey lived in Schenectady and only ventured west to New Holland for county-board meetings once a month. Now he’d missed the biggest story in years.

  The Times-Union featured a concise, accurate story on the murder, but the Knickerbocker News had nothing. I smiled to myself and turned on WSCC, the local radio station. There were news flashes, bulletins, and a general frenzy over Jordan Shaw. The Capital District stations picked up on the story as the hour wore on. By eight, WGY, flagship station of the General Electric Company in Schenectady, was transmitting news of the New Holland murder as far as Montreal, Boston, Philadelphia, and Cleveland—I may be embellishing, but the weather was clear. I blessed Charlie Reese under my breath for the early edition.

  The gravel lot of the Mohawk Motel was empty when I arrived at quarter to nine. Jean Trent had said this wasn’t her high season, but I wondered how she stayed in business.

  “You again?” she said through the storm door. “You’re going to ruin my business with your newspaper stories. What do you want now?”

  “I’m still trying to find Julio,” I said, unable to shake the vision of a fiftyish Jean Trent in bed with a teenager.

  “You and the Royal Mounties. The sheriff was here yesterday looking for him. What did you tell him?”

  “I never mentioned his name. May I come in?”

  “No.” She held the door fast, her eyes difficult to read in the shadows. “I ain’t receiving visitors.”

  “Where does Julio live?” I asked as nicely as I knew how.

  “Down on the East End. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Well, what’s his last name?”

  “Some Rican name. How should I know?”

  “You pay him, don’t you?”

  “Cash. Never had to write a guy’s name on a dollar bill before. And I ain’t telling you nothing else,” she snapped. “You’ve already ruined me with your nosing around.”

  She slammed the door shut and bolted it tight. I walked back to my car, and Jean watched me through a window as I drove away. Not ready to throw in the towel, I pulled into the Sinclair station a half mile up the road and called Frank Olney from the phone booth.

  The sheriff told me he had indeed tried to find Julio the day before but hadn’t located him yet. He knew his last name, though, and gave it to me: Julio Hernandez, resident of 2 Hawk Street on the east end of town.

  “He wasn’t there yesterday,” said Olney. “But we’ve got the city and state police looking for him.”

  “I heard a rumor he and Jean Trent were playing house.” I can’t help looking for confirmations.

  Frank chuckled. “Everyone knows that, Ellie.” He gloated over his small victory, and I let him.

  “Have you asked for a warrant to search her place? You never know what you might find.”

  “Uh, yeah, we’re working on that.” I could almost hear him scribbling a note to get a warrant. It seemed a little late in the game; if Jean Trent had wanted to get rid of incriminating evidence, she could have done so Saturday or Sunday.

  “Will you take me along when you get it?” I asked.

  Olney thought for a moment, then said sure. Before I hung up, he referred to my article in the Republic.

  “That was a nice piece you wrote, Ellie,” he said, his tone conveying more gratitude than admiration. “You’re not like some smart-aleck reporters, just trying to shoot me in the rear. I appreciate that.”

  Charlie Reese was a wise man.

  “Just doing my job, Frank.”

  I hung up the phone, intending to return to the Mohawk to do some exploring behind the motel. I was sure Jean Trent knew a lot more than she was telling, and I wanted the chance to prove it.

  I left my car on the dirt path that led to the rear of the motel, and I approached on foot. The garbage cans, still flanked by the rusting junker and old television, anchored the clearing. The blue pickup was there, too, alongside a new arrival to the pastoral scene: a dark-green Pontiac station wagon woody, circa late forties. The massive chrome grill and bumpers were rusted, the fenders were dented, and the wood paneling had faded and blistered from neglect. But the car was sporting four new whitewall tires. I ducked my head under the chassis, looking for a triangular oil stain. The car was leaking oil, all right, but in steady drops, forming a tacky, black pool in the dirt. No triangle. I stood up, brushed the dirt from my hands and knees, then tested the car door. Open; this was New Holland, after all. No one locked doors. I slid in on the passenger side and tried the glove compartment, which opened on command. Inside, I found a crumpled package of Pall Malls, a broken flashlight, varicolored fuses, and one size D Ray-O-Vac battery. No registration or insurance papers. I noticed, however, that the inspection sticker on the windshield was dated 1959 and had expired seven months earlier.

  The ashtray overflowed with Pall Mall and Salem butts, while a couple of empty root beer bottles and peppermint gum wrappers lay strewn about the floor. I found three nickels and six pennies under the seat, along with a small, black, metallic canister. Nearby, a lonesome cap, made of the same material, was collecting crud. I recognized these last two items immediately; I had at least a hundred just like them in my refrigerator at that very moment: film canisters. I shimmied across the bench seat to exit on the driver’s side and noticed the seat was in its rearmost position, far from the controls. Either little Jean Trent had been wrestling behind the wheel, or someone else had been driving the car.

  I climbed out, closing the door gently, and crept to the rear of the Mohawk. Dipping into the bushes with my camera at the ready, I slipped along the wall to the center of the complex: Jean Trent’s room. To my surprise, I found each louver secured on its hinge. The opaque glass thwarted any chance of seeing inside. I tried two other windows that had been loose the day before and found them closed tight. Afraid to press my luck any further, I pushed through the heavy brush and returned to the dirt road where I’d parked my car.

  Once
off Jean Trent’s property, I stopped to put my camera back in its case. As I slid it inside, the lens cap popped off and fell to the ground. Bending over to pick it up, I came nose to nose with a triangular oil spot.

  Actually, there were two sets of triangular oil spots, a couple of feet apart. But the pattern was identical to the one I’d seen on the service road, though somewhat smaller. I snapped a few frames of the triangles, then returned to my car a little farther down the road. Heading back into town, I stopped at a corner phone booth to try the Boston number again. Still no answer. There was always Western Union, but that wasn’t the fastest way to research a story.

  East Main Street was the hub of New Holland’s barrio, if ever a barrio existed north of Spanish Harlem. Though counting barely thirty thousand souls, New Holland boasted a broad ethnic mix of English, Irish, Italian, and Polish. The Diaspora had cast a few Jewish families into New Holland’s soup, and there was a smattering of Germanic names in the phonebook as well. Believe it or not, no Dutch. The Puerto Ricans were the last group to arrive on the shores of the Mohawk and, as such, enjoyed the distinction of low man on the totem pole.

  Hawk Street ran about three hundred yards north and south, from East Main Street to the train tracks near the river. It had always been a working-class neighborhood, adjacent to the mills, railroad, and river. Even so, Hawk Street and the East End had seen better days. Clutter and disrepair marked the street like tar on a rag. The gray clapboard houses stood leaning, orphaned elders left to expire in a cold, miserable corner of a forsaken town. The street had the look of a neglected graveyard, and, if not for the parked cars, you’d think you’d stumbled into Hell’s own vestibule.

  I rapped on the door marked number 2, and flecks of cracking paint fell to the warped boards of the porch under my feet.

  “What you want?” asked the man who answered the door. He was of medium height and weight, with wavy dark hair, a leathery face, and sharp, black eyes.

  “My name is Ellie Stone. I’m a reporter for the New Holland Republic.” I knew I was unwanted. “I’m looking for . . .”

  “I know why you’re here,” he said, joining me on the porch, closing the door behind him. He was wearing gray-green work clothes. The name “Miguelito” was stitched in cursive into a white oval tag on the right breast pocket of his shirt. “What you want with Julio?” he asked.

  “Just some information,” I said, stepping back.

  “Don’t know where he is.”

  “Listen,” I said, steeling myself. “The sheriff is looking for him; you know that.” The man did nothing to confirm or deny my statement. “I don’t believe Julio had anything to do with this murder, but as long as he remains in hiding, people will assume he did. And that could be dangerous when he finally turns up. And he will turn up; they always do. So why don’t you get word to him to talk to me now? I can present his side of the story in the paper. I won’t give him away.”

  “Don’t know where he is,” repeated the man, staring coldly into my eyes.

  “Just tell him what I said. The press has the right to protect its sources.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. To be precise, the press had the right to go to jail for refusing to divulge its sources.

  “Here’s my number,” I said, holding out a scrap of paper. “In case you see him.”

  The man took the number from me but said nothing. I could feel his eyes on my back as I returned to my car. When I reached my Belvedere, I looked up to see at least two dozen eyes watching me from neighboring porches. I climbed in behind the wheel and eased away from the curb.

  My next stop was a phone booth on the corner of East Main and Broome. The dial was sticky with some brownish substance, and the receiver was no prize either, but it worked. It didn’t matter anyway; there was still no answer at Ginny’s number in Boston.

  A few blocks away, on the north bank of the Mohawk, straddling the Cayunda, stood some of the old knitting mills—monuments to an era gone by. Only a few shops remained, among them was Fowler’s Mill, where Pukey Boyle sewed fingers into gloves forty hours a week. The foreman wasn’t pleased to have a reporter asking for one of his workers, and he told me so.

  “He’s working, girlie,” he said, leaving me on the wrong side of the gate. “You can cool your heels till he breaks for lunch.”

  I waited outside, resisting the cold by drinking coffee and chatting with the sandwich truck guy, Manny.

  “Do you know a fellow named Boyle?” I asked him. “Pukey Boyle?”

  “What’s he look like?” asked Manny.

  I gave him what little description I had: a young greaser who smokes.

  “There’s gotta be fifty guys like that work here,” he said, sticking a slice of bologna between two slices of Freihofer’s bread. “I ain’t got nothing to say to the young guys, anyways. Bunch of jerks, mostly. The older Joes are okay. Had good jobs till the mills packed up and left. They’re stuck here ’cause they got families and mortgages, and this is what they done their whole life. The young ones are just losers. Smart folks know there’s no future left in New Holland.”

  My father would have tipped Manny and slapped him on the back for that last remark.

  Finally, when the noon whistle blew, a herd of working men spilled out of the gates and headed our way. As they reached the truck, I began asking for Pukey. A fat man with a two-day beard told me he’d be along soon. A second worker said he didn’t know no Pukey Boyle, but he’d like to know me better. I edged away. As more men passed, I encountered indifference, wolfish leers, and outright hostility, but no Pukey Boyle. Then, after about twenty minutes, a tall, muscular young man with hair combed into a DA at least a couple of years out of style sidled up to me.

  “You looking for me?” he asked, leaning against the fender of an old Ford behind me. He took a bite from his sandwich.

  “Are you Pukey Boyle?” I asked, turning to look at him straight on. He was big, at least ten inches taller than I.

  “Who are you, anyway?” he asked, squinting in my direction.

  “Ellie Stone,” I said, and my voice cracked. “I work at the paper. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “What about?”

  Was he kidding? Surely he knew about Jordan Shaw’s death; it was the biggest news in years. In fact, it was the only news in years, and she was a former girlfriend of his.

  “I wanted to ask you about Jordan Shaw.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s dead,” I said, realizing that, indeed, Pukey Boyle lived under a rock.

  “What?” He pushed himself off the fender and spat out a mouthful of his sandwich. It looked like egg salad.

  “She was murdered Friday night.”

  He threw what was left of his sandwich to the blacktop and swore out loud. Then he laughed. Laughed!

  “And people always said I’d get her into trouble. What happened anyway?”

  “Someone broke her neck. Don’t you read the papers?”

  “You a comedian?” he said, towering over me. He wasn’t laughing.

  I took a step back, and he chuckled.

  “Don’t sweat it, baby,” he said, easing himself back onto the fender. “So tell me what happened.”

  “I take it you haven’t seen her recently,” I said, a little short of breath. He was intimidating.

  “Not in two, two and a half years. And that was just running into her at Tedesco’s Grill.”

  “Do you have any idea who would want to kill her?”

  “What, are you writing a book?”

  “No, just an article for the paper. Now, about my question.”

  Again Pukey chuckled, more to himself this time. “I’d bet any guy she ever went out with would be tempted to. CTs have a way of pissing guys off, know what I mean?”

  “CTs?” I asked.

  “Cockteasers. Sorry, I was trying to be polite.”

  I nodded. “I see. Have you ever been to the Mohawk Motel?”

  “Is that an invitation?” He was loo
king me up and down without compunction.

  “Where were you Friday night?” I asked, ignoring him. “Say, about eleven?”

  Pukey stared at me with a quizzical smile, as if amused by my effrontery. He shook his head but gave no answer. He undressed me with his eyes one more time—I surely blushed—then he pushed off the car and trudged back to the mill. I watched him go, breathing more easily now that he’d left, and returned the favor of a thorough undressing.

  Manny gave me a knowing look. “What’d I tell you? Jerks.”

  I phoned Judge Shaw from the booth at the bottom of Vrooman Avenue, on East Main Street. I half wished he would offer me lunch, but he never did. His tone remained cool and distant, despite the empathy I felt for him after our meeting. Perhaps he was reluctant to repeat the agonizing interview of the night before, or maybe he didn’t want to feel close to me. Whatever it was, he stayed on script.

  I described the difficulty I was having tracking down Ginny in Boston. He gave me her home address—109 Dudley Street in Brookline, near the reservoir—and her parents’ phone number. I told him of the progress I’d made that day, and he listened patiently, painfully too, indicating his understanding from time to time with a soft grunt.

  “How did you find out about Mr. Boyle,” he asked when I had finished.

  “I’ve been nosing around,” I said, thinking “Mr. Boyle” a waste of formality on a man who called himself “Pukey.”

  “And what was your opinion of him?”

  “A little rough around the edges,” I said cagily, picturing his broad shoulders and handsome face. I didn’t mention his mane of thick, shiny hair, though I remembered it. “He seemed genuinely surprised to hear the news. I didn’t take him to be clever enough to pull off a convincing act, but you never know.”

  “Was there anything else about him that struck you?”

  “He wasn’t exactly broken up by the news, if you’ll excuse my saying so.”