Truth Beat

by Brenda Buchanan

  “What the hell is the story, Pat? Why did you ask Doug to hook you up with a pack of thieves? Did you need more money than the bishop paid you? For what? Your housing and health care came with the gig. You got three square meals a day. You didn’t seem to want for anything. So why steal from the Church?”

  Rufe stretched out on the couch, laptop on his belly, glad he lived alone and could talk to a dead friend’s face on his computer screen without being thought daft.

  He wondered what the truth was about Pat’s relationship with DiAngelo. Were they lovers, or had Pat made that up?

  Pat had looked Rufe in the eye the night he divulged that secret, and Rufe knew acting when he saw it. Pat was tapping something way down deep, admitted with tears in his eyes he’d envied those who were able to live outside the closet. But the kid at the bar, the one who watched Pat across the kettles in the lobster shack when he was supervising the cooking of his shore dinner? He sure as hell thought Pat and Mike were a couple. Rufe knew from personal experience that a teenage boy who has just figured out he’s queer looks around all the time, trying to spot other gay men. Bryce had picked up on the vibe between Pat and DiAngelo. That was solid intelligence, all right.

  Rufe stared at the computer screen, clicking through the week’s stories until he found the photo of Patrick as a young man, the one where he affected a James Dean slouch. A tear slid down his cheek.

  “Were you lying to yourself or lying to everyone else you ever knew, including me? I trusted you, man. I didn’t have you up on a fucking pedestal, but I thought you spoke from your heart, even when it was difficult, even when people wanted you to skim over the painful stuff. Now I’m left thinking I was foolish, that I bought your act. And that really pisses me off.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Peggy McGillicuddy knocked on my front door at seven thirty on Sunday morning. I was awake but still lying in bed, exhausted after six hours of quasi-sleep sullied by dark, shadowy dreams. I figured the insistent knock was the neighborhood Little Leaguers on a bottle drive. They were early birds, and always came to the mostly unused front door. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, shuffled barefoot to the front hall and opened the door with such a yank Peggy took two steps back.

  “Did I wake you?”

  “No worries. I was up. I thought you were kids collecting returnables. What’s going on?” I looked over her shoulder, noticed it was raining softly. “Come in. Please. Come on in.”

  I took her damp raincoat, settled her at the kitchen table and put the kettle on. Then I excused myself and went into the bathroom where I brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face and hair. When I emerged she was reading the previous day’s Chronicle, which had been atop the pile of newspapers in the recycle bin that lives next to my kitchen door.

  “Let’s start over. How are you this morning, Peggy? What brings you out so early? And how did you know where I live?”

  “I’m agitated. That’s why I’m out so early. And I’m adept with a computer, so it took me under a minute to look up your address in the Riverside assessing database.”

  I slid into the chair opposite hers. “I’m sorry not to have been in touch for a few days. I know all the recent news about Patrick must be deeply upsetting, given your friendship with him.”

  “Upsetting doesn’t touch it. It’s been an awful week, and I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse.”

  “You mean the calling hours today and the ten-priests-on-the-altar funeral tomorrow?”

  “The wake and funeral were going to be hard enough, given that Patrick was murdered,” she said. “Then the state police staged that terrible press conference yesterday, all but saying he was involved in a criminal enterprise. Last night I read online that his sister was assaulted in her own home.”

  “I was in Bangor yesterday afternoon. I saw her at the hospital.”

  “Do the police have a suspect?”

  The kettle shrieked. I opted for discretion. “They wouldn’t talk to me.”

  Peggy asked for tea so I set about making her a cup of Irish Breakfast and set up a coffee cone to drip myself a cup of dark roast.

  “I won’t be surprised if a lot of people who otherwise would have stood in line to pay their respects will stay away now,” Peggy said. “It’s so upsetting.”

  “People at the Chronicle commented on the timing of the press conference, too. Lieutenant Rigoletti—the statie in charge of the investigation—is in no way, shape or form a sensitive man, but giving a press briefing that threw a lot of mud up in the air the day before the wake seemed particularly cold-hearted.”

  “When even the press thinks it’s callous, it’s callous.”

  My laugh appeared to surprise Peggy, but it was true. It’s a rare day when reporters call something heartless. Newsroom banter is often crude. Sometimes it’s downright cruel. My mentor Paulie Finnegan knew where the line was, quietly dressing down wags who dehumanized crime victims and even perps. Everybody’s somebody’s brother, he’d say. If you turn every tragedy into the punchline of a joke you’ll lose an important part of yourself. His demand for decorum surprised me the first time I heard it. I was a rookie reporter, and hadn’t yet fully absorbed Paulie’s most fundamental lesson—cynicism will wreck you worse than chain smoking or heavy drinking. In fact, it might drive you to both.

  I knew Peggy hadn’t showed up at my home early on a Sunday morning to share her distress about the timing of a press conference. “Have you turned up anything more about Bozco?”

  “He moved recently. From a room in a dilapidated house on Grove Street to a four-room apartment in an Oak Street Victorian. Not the fancy part of Oak Street, but still quite a step up.”

  “How’d you learn about it?”

  Peggy sipped her tea. “There’s a church protest listserv. I don’t usually read it because of all the flaming that goes on. Lot of opinionated people on there, and they lose their inhibitions in front of the keyboard. But this week I was curious about what was being said. As you might guess, it’s been buzzing. I read backward out of curiosity, and around the first of the month I found a post from Bozco saying he couldn’t make a meeting because he was in the middle of moving. I made a quiet inquiry and learned the address, and heard that he bought a car, too. A second-hand Civic. White.”

  “Got a plate number?”

  Peggy laughed but I wasn’t kidding. A white car can look silver in the sunlight.

  “I’m not that much of a detective. But I find it interesting that a man who didn’t have two dimes to rub together suddenly seems to come into some money. From what I can tell he doesn’t work.”

  “Do you think he was tied up in this theft thing?”

  “It wouldn’t shock me. He’s not like the rest of us protesting the church closures. He’s rarely seen at Mass, for example, and when he goes he doesn’t take communion. I realize I shouldn’t judge him, but it’s odd.”

  I got up and filled the kettle again. “Another cup of tea?”

  Peggy thought about it a moment before nodding. Was she still deciding whether to spit out what she’d come to say? I primed the pump by letting her know I’d had several conversations with Kathleen, though I implied Kathleen hadn’t been chatty while confined to a hospital bed.

  “I could see from your profile in this morning’s paper that you’d interviewed her,” Peggy said. “I’ve never met her, but Patrick loved her dearly.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. High-tech Peggy probably had read my profile of Patrick online, hours before the thick bundles of Sunday paper were on the street, and some detail brought her to my door. I continued to push the Kathleen angle to see what it would yield.

  “As my story said, they were close in age and tight growing up. The premature death of two of their siblings and the functional loss of the other two brought them even closer as adult
s. It sounded like he was able to be wholly himself with Kathleen.”

  Peggy was examining her fingernails. “I know someone else who knew him in that way. Not as a public figure, but as a man with quirks and foibles. My friend would like to talk with you but is nervous about it.”

  We’ve finally reached the nub, I thought.

  “Has this friend reached out to me? Mailed me a couple of notes on blue stationery, perhaps?”

  Peggy nodded.

  “And you’re serving as a go-between.”

  “Right. I’ve vouched for you. Promised you wouldn’t exploit the situation.”

  “What does that mean to your friend? ‘Exploit the situation’?”

  The kettle whistled again, which allowed Peggy a moment to frame her response.

  “That you’ll use any information he or she provides as a means to get to the underlying truth about what happened to Patrick. Not as an end in and of itself. That you won’t write about the facts my friend provides without giving them context.”

  “You obviously know the information your friend wishes to pass along.”

  “In a general way, yes.”

  “And you can’t tell me yourself?”

  “It would not be my place.”

  “Is there a reason your friend prefers to talk to the press instead of the police?”

  Peggy paused. “Bad history with the police. Not around here, but a bad enough experience that talking to them is off the table.”

  “Why me?”

  “Everyone knows you learned your trade from Paulie Finnegan. My friend trusted him. When he died, that goodwill passed to you.”

  It turned out the person for whom Peggy was an emissary wanted serious cloak and dagger. He or she—and I had no idea which, because Peggy was scrupulous about keeping her language gender-neutral—wanted to meet me in a location of his or her choosing, but not until after the funeral and burial. The location wouldn’t be revealed to me until the hour before the meeting. I had to promise upfront not to tell anyone—even my editor—that the meeting was going to take place. The source reserved the right to impose additional rules before the meeting.

  I didn’t know if the elaborate plan meant Peggy’s friend had no experience with the press, and perhaps had watched too many movies with Deep Throat-like characters, or if he or she was a public figure who was determined not to be known as my source. It didn’t matter. I was in no position to negotiate, even though I needed a story today.

  “Just as there was no reason for the state police to hold that press conference yesterday when they all but called Patrick a thief, my friend feels this discussion can and should wait until at least Tuesday of next week. Patrick is due as much respect as can be mustered under these circumstances.”

  “I agree, but if your friend has information about Patrick’s murder, there’s no time to waste.”

  “Time spent contemplating the right way to do things isn’t wasted time,” Peggy said.

  * * *

  I had an express breakfast at the Rambler, gulping a cup of coffee while Christie slapped together two egg-and-swiss-cheese sandwiches to go. Every seat at the counter was taken, so I put in my order verbally. Two men were sitting in the back booth wearing windbreakers that announced they were investigators from the state fire marshal’s office. I didn’t recognize the one facing the door, but when I approached I saw the other one was the guy who’d stiff-armed me Wednesday night when I tried to get close to the middle of the football field.

  I reintroduced myself and squatted next to their table. “Anything new you can tell me?”

  I was the only person able to ask the question that was on the mind of everyone in the diner. I tried to pretend all eyes weren’t watching us.

  “No particular leads,” said the one who’d run me off the other night. “But at least one might have been a copycat.”

  “I wrote about that the other day. You ready to tell me which one?”

  They shook their heads in unison.

  “Not yet. But we’re close to breaking it.”

  “The town will be glad to know that.”

  “You can go ahead and print it,” the other one said. “A big break is coming.”

  They stood up, grabbed the slip on their table and pushed past me toward the register, where Christie waved off their attempt to pay for their breakfast.

  “You’re all set,” she said. “Thank you for coming in.”

  She was holding my wrapped-up sandwiches and gave me a quick squeeze when she handed them off. “They tell you anything?”

  “Keep it to yourself till I have a chance to tweet something, but a break is imminent, they say.”

  “I hope that’s true.”

  “Don’t we all? Is Theo done being mad at me?”

  “I think so. He actually came downstairs last night and watched TV with me for an hour.”

  “That’s good.”

  She flashed me one of her patented smiles. “Wherever you’re going today, watch your back, okay?”

  * * *

  I voice-dialed the newsroom as I drove to Portland, intending to dictate the lead for a school bombing update. Bluetooth stereoed the call throughout my newish Subaru. Leah didn’t usually work Sundays, but she answered the phone and started talking the moment she realized it was me.

  “I hope you’re on your way in. The news has come to us this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Protesters. Out front. With signs. And a bullhorn.”

  “Bullhorn? That’s got to be J.C. Bozco.”

  “I’ve never met the man. All I can tell you is there are about twenty-five people marching around saying bad things about the Chronicle.”

  “What are they saying?”

  “It’s not an entirely coherent message. Some appear to think the newspaper is anti-Catholic, that we are using Patrick’s death to bash their religion. But at least a couple are holding signs that accuse us of being part of a cover-up, and one is on stilts wearing an oversized papier-mâché head that I think is supposed to be the Pope.”

  “I’m two minutes from the front door.”

  “Do yourself a favor and use the back. I believe you somehow are the focus of their ire.”

  I told her the gist of what the fire marshals at the diner had said, enough to get a story up on the web. The gaggle of protestors was visible two blocks distant from the Chronicle, so I tucked my car in a parking garage that didn’t charge on Sundays and hoofed it the rest of the way.

  Typically the weekend newsroom is quiet, but that morning all hands were either on deck or on their way. Leah herself had stopped to chat up several Riverside residents on her stroll through the crowd, including a man named Brody who said he’d hauled his ass out of bed at six on a Sunday morning and would spend the whole day marching around in the chilly rain if that’s what it took to get the police to stop smearing Patrick’s good name.

  “Brody said anyone could have stolen stuff out of the churches while they were being closed. He lives a block from the old Holy Martyrs, says when it was being cleaned out the work crew left it wide open every day when they left for lunch. He claims it was blatant, like an invitation to thieves or kids looking for a souvenir. He’s outraged at the implication things were stolen by Patrick.”

  “Did this Brody fellow explain why they’re picketing the newspaper? We didn’t call the press conference.”

  “Classic shoot the messenger,” Leah said. “Based on other conversations I overheard, there’s more emotion than logic uniting the crowd. Brody told me he showed up because he doesn’t think the paper will push the cops unless the people push the paper.”

  “Did you see J.C. Bozco?”

  “Off to the side, huddled with a couple of TV reporters.”

  �
�I’ll bet you a beer he’s the one who posted the notice on Facebook. He’s all about getting people stirred up. I’d love to know why we’re suddenly in his sights.” I was telling Leah about Bozco showing up at Christie’s house on Saturday afternoon when Roz breezed in.

  “I haven’t seen the inside of this newsroom on a Sunday morning since I was a copygirl,” she said. “This is damned exciting.”

  “The betting line says our friend J.C. Bozco is the instigator.”

  “What’s he trying to instigate?”

  “That’s the question of the day.”

  Leah left us to organize the troops to interview more protesters. “Find out if there’s a coherent narrative,” she said to a clutch of reporters around her desk that included a pumped-up-looking Al Lombard. “What do these people want?”

  I whispered to Roz that I was headed to Bangor.

  “Good minds think alike,” she said, motioning me to her cubicle, where she sat down but didn’t take off her raincoat.

  “You want to see Kathleen?”

  “That’s your assignment. Mine is to meet with the investigators. Late last night I had a brief phone chat with Mark Booth, my Bangor detective buddy, but he was cagey. Said a face-to-face talk would be better, but his reasons for that could be personal.”

  I noticed that Roz was wearing a particularly nice sweater and a spangly necklace. “This Detective Booth—does he look like an aging movie star?”

  She laughed. “That’s the one. The older he gets, the more he cultivates the tall-dark-handsome look.”

  “You implied yesterday that you and he know each other intimately.”

  She averted her eyes and quirked her shiny red mouth sideways. “I told you. Mark and I are dear friends.” When she met my eyes again hers were laughing.

  “If you’re so close, perhaps we should take separate cars. I don’t want to be a fifth wheel.”

  “No need,” she said. “We’re the kind of dear friends who had a sweet thing once upon a time, that’s all.”

  “You think your pal Booth really will be forthcoming?”