No Stone Unturned

by James W. Ziskin

  Julio sat quietly for a minute, gazing at the South Side across the river, and I said nothing, hoping he wanted to talk.

  “She was alive at eleven twenty,” he said finally.

  I turned to look at him. “What’s that?”

  “I know she was still alive at eleven twenty Friday night.”

  “Did you see her through the bathroom window?” I asked.

  He dropped his head, rubbed his brow, and nodded yes. I could see the tension in his jaw. His skin burned red, and a vein stuck out on his forehead, just above his fingers that hid his eyes. He was crying silently.

  “Did you see anyone in her room? What did the guy look like?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, taking his hand away from his face. “I couldn’t see him from the window.” His voice shriveled to a whisper. “The bathroom door was closed most of the time he was there. But I heard him leave and start his car a few minutes after eleven.”

  “Did you see the others? The ones who came later?”

  He shook his head.

  “All right. What did you see at eleven twenty? Was she nude?”

  He looked startled for a moment, then realized my question was only natural, considering what had been going on inside the room. He nodded, “Yeah.”

  “What was she doing?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing. She came into the bathroom and brushed her hair. Then she went back to the other room.”

  I thought a moment, and Julio breathed heavily next to me.

  “How long were you at the window?” I asked.

  “You’re not going to print this, are you?” he said, grabbing my right wrist and wrenching it toward him. “I swear I’ll kill you if you do.”

  “No, Julio! Don’t worry. I’m just trying to find out who killed her.” My God, did I have a killer sitting next to me in my car? “You can trust me,” I said, hoping I could trust him. “How long were you at the window?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, dropping my arm gruffly and turning away. “Forty minutes, maybe.”

  “What was she doing when you left the window?” I asked, rubbing my wrist.

  “The same. Stretched out on the bed. Nothing. I couldn’t see much from that angle. Just her legs.”

  “Where are the pictures, Julio?”

  His head jerked left, his eyes burning wildly at me. “What?”

  “Where are the pictures you took of her? I want to see them.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “I know you took pictures, Julio, and you’ve got to show them to me.”

  “I didn’t take any pictures! I just watched her!”

  “I can’t say I’m sure you’re innocent, but I believe you are. And my opinion is based on the bathroom window and your camera. I know you were living with Jean Trent; I saw the chemical stains on the bathroom counter, and I smelled the hypo. You got rid of the equipment, even the clothespins you use to hang your prints, but I know when someone’s been developing film. And Jean Trent doesn’t own a Brownie, let alone a darkroom. You’re a photographer, Julio, I know it. Come on; come clean.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” he asked. “You’re just a girl. And no older than me. What good can you do for me?”

  Before I could answer, a pair of headlights lit the side of Julio’s face, and we both jumped. He swore out loud, threw his door open, and bolted from the car. Before I could speak, he had disappeared down the embankment, toward the river. The car that had spooked him passed by, never even slowing down. I sighed, switched on the radio, and lit a cigarette. Connie Francis was singing “Lipstick on your Collar.”

  I drove around town, thinking, but no insights were forthcoming. Where could Julio be holed up? Somewhere in the Puerto Rican community, probably; surely he had friends who would shelter him, maybe even help him get away. Why hadn’t he fled the area already? Or was he foolish enough to go back to Jean Trent’s?

  I circled the city, starting with the East End. The streets were deserted at three o’clock. Then I drove to Judge Shaw’s home on Market Hill, finding all the windows dark, drapes drawn tightly. I sat idling in front of the house for several minutes, wondering which window had been Jordan’s. And I thought of Judge Shaw. I wondered if he could sleep, if the wretched sorrow ever slipped from his mind, even for a moment, allowing a blithe respite from the pain. Could he permit himself the indulgence of oblivion? I knew the ache well. The emotional tug-of-war. But the mind can’t grieve forever; it needs distraction or it will break. I still mourned the losses in my life, and I dealt with them as best I could. I wondered if Judge Shaw would do the same, in some other manner of his own choosing. Perhaps it was too soon for him. I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t know if I had the courage.

  The Mohawk Motel was deserted. All the lights were out. I gazed out over the steering wheel at room 4, conjuring a living, breathing Jordan Shaw behind its disreputable door. I didn’t know what I was looking for or why I was there. Sometimes you just stare at things and search for inspiration.

  My last destination was the rutted service road I had visited hours earlier with Frank Olney. The night was eerier than before; this time I was alone. A half-moon provided the only light in the sky, casting its washed-out rays on the high water tower and frosted ground in front of me. I scanned the woods from the road one more time, looking for something different. But nothing had changed. I turned my car around and drove home.

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1960

  At six thirty, I dragged myself out of bed and dialed Boston. No answer, and I was past annoyed. After a quick shower and a check of the local papers, I pulled out the slim New Holland phonebook to look for a name: Boyle. There were three, two at the same address, and one woman. None of them were named Pukey. I called the operator and ran up against another dead end. Frank Olney might know, but I didn’t want to wait for him. Besides, he was busy tracking Julio. Julio! I cursed myself for having let him get away the night before. He had pictures of Jordan Shaw—I was sure of that—and I intended to find them.

  My Belvedere barely coughed the first two times I turned the key, and it didn’t start until I’d pumped the carburetor full of gas, almost flooding the engine. It was seven thirty, and I wanted to arrive at Fowler’s Mill before Pukey Boyle.

  Next to the mill, Fowler’s tar parking lot covered about one hundred yards square. I positioned myself near the entrance where I could see every car coming in. From 7:50 on, the stream of vehicles and foot traffic was constant, and I had to look fast and hard to catch Pukey’s witless face and mane of greased hair through the windshield. At 7:59 he squealed into the lot at the wheel of a maroon Hudson Hornet. The metallic paint was waxed and buffed to a sheen. He parked about twenty yards from me and ran for the gate to begin his eight hours of sewing fingers into gloves. Once the stragglers had disappeared inside, I climbed out of my car and made my way over to the Hudson. Pukey had parked it catercornered in two spaces so no other car could come near it. I ducked underneath and found the cleanest, best-maintained undercarriage I had ever seen. Certainly no oil leaking from this set of wheels. I stood up, surveyed the area for witnesses, then tried the door. Locked. Only a gearhead like Pukey Boyle would lock his car in New Holland. I took a close look at the wide tires, whose footprints were as distinctive as a signature. But I hadn’t seen any tire tracks at the crime scene, let alone anything as unique as these.

  At the Republic’s offices, Tuesday afternoon’s edition was already in at Composition, but I had some things to do in the photographers’ room. I called Benny Arnold, a fellow I knew at the Department of Motor Vehicles, hoping for a little help. I wanted to know if Julio Hernandez of 2 Hawk Street had a car registered in Montgomery County, and, if by any chance, Jean Trent of R. D. 40 had a second car. Benny said his supervisor had been on the prowl all morning, but he would check and call me back at lunchtime.

  “How come you never returned my calls, Ellie?” he asked before hanging up.

  “I heard you had a new girl,
” I lied, trying to wriggle off the hook.

  “No, I don’t.” He wasn’t buying it. “I’ll call you back anyway.”

  Charlie Reese dropped by to discuss my progress. I described the state of Pukey Boyle’s car, and we both laughed. Then I told him about my late-night rendezvous with Julio Hernandez.

  “He called you? Let’s run the story as an exclusive interview with the chief suspect!”

  “We’ll never see him again if we do, Charlie. The kid’s scared. And I’m sure he knows more than he told me last night. It’s just a matter of gaining his confidence. He’ll come across, I know it.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “Who knows? He was there Friday night, peeping in her window. Had the opportunity and maybe the motive—if she saw him in the window.”

  “So what did he see?”

  “He saw her alive at eleven twenty. And she was alone.”

  “Didn’t see any of the men?” he asked, popping a cigarette into his mouth.

  “I thought you’d quit again,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, I started up again. But what about this Puerto Rican kid? You sure he didn’t see any of the men? Is he being straight with you?”

  “I can’t tell. I told you, he’s scared. A car drove past us, and he bolted. If I’d only had some more time with him . . . He was at her window for forty minutes Friday night, Charlie. He must know something more than what she looks like nude.”

  “Good luck. If you ask me, the next time he turns up, he’ll be wanting to talk to a lawyer, not you.”

  “I’ll get to him, sooner or later,” I said. “And I’ll get that film he shot of her, too.”

  Charlie nearly swallowed his cigarette. I smiled.

  “Just a hunch.”

  Benny called at a quarter past twelve and told me there were no cars registered under the name Julio Hernandez. He had found, however, a red 1948 Chrysler that belonged to Miguel Hernandez of 2 Hawk Street. Julio’s father, no doubt.

  “As for Jean Trent,” he said, rustling some papers, “she owns a 1948 Ford F-2 truck, three-quarters of a ton empty, registered as a commercial vehicle.”

  “Yes, I knew that,” I said, already searching for an excuse to close the conversation. “Well, thanks anyway, Benny, I . . .”

  “Wait a minute, Ellie. Don’t you want to know about her other car?”

  I had forgotten about the green Pontiac woody I’d seen parked behind the motel. Benny told me it was a 1946 station wagon, registration expired in April 1960. The title actually named Victor Trent of R. D. 40 as the owner, but he had been dead for several years. I had a feeling if I could find the wagon, I’d find Julio.

  Tedesco’s Grill served the best Italian bar food in the city. From standard fare, like ziti and meat sauce, to six-inch-thick meatball and roast-beef sandwiches, you got your money’s worth. But more than anything else, Tedesco’s was known for its pizza, and late Tuesday afternoon I was sitting at the dark bar in a gray skirt and a black jacket, waiting for a small mushroom-and-sausage pie.

  “Look who’s here,” said Jimmy Tedesco, dropping a double Dewar’s I hadn’t ordered on the bar before me. “World-famous reporter Eleonora Stone.” The crowd cheered and jeered me good-naturedly, and I blushed. “You’re all over the news,” he continued. “Now that you’re a big shot, you tool around town all dolled up like this?”

  “Going to a wake.”

  “Yeah? Who died?”

  “Don’t you read the papers?” I asked. “Oh, that’s right, Jimmy, you can’t read.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I read the papers. How would you like some special garnish on your pizza?”

  After twenty minutes and another Scotch, I called Jimmy over to ask a question: “Who’s that guy over by the jukebox?”

  “That’s Greg something-or-other,” he said. “Used to play quarterback for the high school team.”

  “He’s been looking at me since I came in.”

  “It’s a free country, Ellie,” he said. “And by the way, every guy in here stares at you whenever you come in, including me.” He winked and slapped a shot glass upside-down on the bar in front me, signifying I had a drink coming on the house.

  Jimmy wiped his hands on his apron and called out to the young man by the jukebox: “Hey, you! Quit staring at the lady. You’re making her nervous.”

  A few minutes later, once I’d recovered from the embarrassment, I felt a tap on my shoulder. A tall young woman in her early twenties stood before me in the dim light. She was wearing a sneer and a black dress.

  “You’re that girl from the paper, aren’t you? Remember me?”

  “Glenda Whalen,” I said. “Hello . . .”

  The next thing I remember was Jimmy Tedesco dabbing my swollen lip with a wet towel. The back of my head was pounding, and I realized I was on the floor amid a forest of barstool legs.

  “What happened?” I stammered, my mouth sticky with the taste of blood.

  “That girl decked you,” said Jimmy, a touch more amused than I would have liked.

  “What for?” I tried to get up, but Jimmy restrained me.

  “Hold your horses, Ellie,” he said. “You bumped your head pretty good on the bar. Just stay there for a few minutes till you get your wits back.”

  “But your floor’s so dirty, Jimmy,” I mumbled.

  He laughed. “I guess you’re feeling okay, then. But last night Billy Valicki puked right where you’re resting your head.”

  “Why did she hit me?” I asked, trying to gather up my hair and keep it off the floor.

  “I was just kidding about Billy Valicki puking on the floor,” he said, brushing my hand away from my hair. “Relax and take it easy, I said. As for that girl, she said something about Jordan Shaw. Something about the Mohawk Motel.”

  “Where is she? I want to talk to her.”

  Jimmy laughed. “You better stay away from her, Ellie. We had to throw her out of here; she was going to beat you to a pulp. Best cat fight we’ve seen in here in years. Short, but good.”

  “What do you mean was going to beat me to a pulp? I’d say she did a pretty good job.”

  “Hell, she only hit you once. Like Khrushchev banging his shoe on the table, only the table was your face.”

  A couple of patrons helped Jimmy lift me to my feet, and a few minutes later I was steady enough to hold myself up. I washed down a couple of aspirins with some cold water and waited for my head to stop spinning. A New Holland police officer showed up and tried to convince me to press charges. There were plenty of witnesses, but I declined.

  “Suit yourself,” said the officer. “But when she comes back looking for you, don’t blame the cops.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said, putting on my overcoat.

  “And take your pizza while you’re at it,” said Jimmy, handing me a cardboard parcel.

  I took the pizza—no charge—and drove to O’Connor’s Funeral Home on Division Street. My altercation with Glenda Whalen had made me late, and, as a result, there were no convenient parking spots. The whole town had turned out for the wake, it seemed, and I had to leave my car three blocks away. Normally I wouldn’t have minded, but I hadn’t quite regained my land legs. Even worse was bending over to check for oil spots under every car around the funeral home. And I didn’t know the first thing about engines and leaking oil. If the car was dripping slowly, there might not be any telltale spots for hours to come. But I had nothing else to go on, so I stooped. And stooped. I didn’t find the one I was looking for.

  The funeral parlor overflowed with New Holland’s elite and curious, and it hummed with rumor and speculation about the girl in the open coffin. The mourners streamed in, signed the guestbook, and set their eyes on the shattered parents. The judge’s wife, in a black silk dress, wore a veil to obscure her eyes. She was composed, indeed statuesque, to a point far beyond what I had been led to expect, and it was clear she was no longer under sedation. The judge sat straight and dignified next to his wife, but his sto
ny expression warded off most people. Only the bravest approached the couple to offer condolences, and none got any response beyond a sober nod. After witnessing a few of these attempts, the funeral director stationed himself between the Shaws and the coffin to repel all but a select few friends and local VIPs.

  I took up a discreet position near some flowers along the wall; I wanted to observe, but not at the cost of disrupting the solemnity of the occasion. The assembly represented a who’s who of New Holland society, and I had to struggle to keep my foggy head clear to remember them all. Mayor Chester looked stiff in a black overcoat and matching fedora; Montgomery County DA Don Czerulniak, known affectionately to the boys in the newsroom as the Thin Man, was in somber consultation with Doc Peruso; Frank Olney stood against a pillar in the back, sweating puddles in a wrinkled shirt, short tie, and tight jacket. I compiled the list in my head: two dozen lawyers; seven judges, including three from the Third Appellate Division in Albany; all twelve city aldermen; the county supervisor, Gabe Fletcher; Herbert Keith, principal of W. T. Finch High; teachers; clergy—Lutheran, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Roman Catholic, and Jewish; doctors; restaurateurs; merchants; and on and on. Mrs. Lorraine Valeska, doyenne of New Holland’s piano teachers, hobbled in behind a cane and took a place standing against the wall next to Artie Short, who’d found a chair he wasn’t parting with. Eventually, a young man nearby offered her his seat.

  New Holland’s gentry was there, all right, but I was more interested in New Holland’s rabble. Where was Pukey Boyle, for instance? There were many young people, former classmates and friends, I suspected, and I wondered if Tom Quint had made the trip back from Rochester. My lip throbbed again when I noticed Glenda Whalen glaring at me from across the hot room. Next to her was the same Greg fellow who had been ogling me at Tedesco’s. He seemed to be undressing me with his eyes. At a wake.

  I joined the DA in the adjacent parlor. I had met Don Czerulniak two years earlier when I covered his campaign, and we had remained friendly since, probably because I never once misspelled his name in print.