Night of the Ice Storm

by Stout, David;

  “Could he have been gay?”

  “Almost nothing surprises me anymore,” Delaney said. “I know what you’re driving at. Proving anything would be more than a long shot.”

  “You wouldn’t necessarily have to prove …” Shit, Marlee thought. Hooked again. Now he’s going to think you’re a jerk, and he’ll be right.

  “What are we talking about here, Marlee?” Delaney’s voice was all cop now.

  “If you checked, it might help Ed’s ex-wife.” Deep breath, then get it all out at once. “She might collect more on some insurance if there was some doubt raised about whether it was a suicide.”

  “Oh, boy. I didn’t hear you say that, Marlee. Because if I had, it wouldn’t be kosher for me to investigate anything. I’m supposed to be in the business of gathering facts, evidence sometimes, and never mind who it hurts. Or helps.”

  “I know. I know.” Marlee felt a pang of contrition.

  “I’d be walking real close to the line if I did what you suggest, assuming I’d heard what you just said.”

  “Yes. I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry for what? I told you, I didn’t hear you.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”

  Marlee was smiling as she hung up. She was startled to see Jenifer standing in the doorway.

  “I just wanted to know if I should let your dog in,” Jenifer said. “He was whining.”

  “I’ll get him. How much did you hear just now?”

  “Enough to figure it out. Maybe he’ll find something.” But Jenifer was frowning.

  “What’s wrong?” Marlee said.

  “Whether or not Ed Sperl’s ex-wife makes out with the insurance isn’t really the point. Is it?”

  “Well, no, but if we …”

  “Call me a hard-ass if you like, and I know you’re more experienced than I am. But a reporter’s supposed to go after a story for the sake of getting at the truth.”

  “Yes, and suppose it’s true that Ed Sperl didn’t—”

  “If things were turned around, you wouldn’t feel the same way. Would you, Marlee? If the ruling was that Ed Sperl died in an accident, or someone killed him, you wouldn’t be pressing some cop’s buttons to find out it was a suicide. Would you?”.

  . “No, of course not. But that wouldn’t help anyone, it would only hurt.” But Marlee knew Jenifer had got it right.

  “Okay,” Jenifer said. “Maybe your cop friend will find something out regardless.”

  “I hope so. He might be able to tell us something about Ed’s death.”

  Jenifer nodded agreement, but the disapproval shone in her eyes.

  “Shit,” Marlee said. “I know I should be more hard-boiled sometimes. Less involved emotionally.”

  Jenifer shrugged. “Maybe he’ll find something.”

  Marlee managed a smile, but her eyes were hot. She knew the bond between Jenifer and her had been spoiled.

  “I have to be going,” Jenifer said.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Anytime. Let me know what your friend finds out, okay?”

  “Sure.” She walked Jenifer to the front door. “I think he’s a good cop,” Marlee said through the screen. “He goes by his instincts, too.”

  But Jenifer was halfway down the walk, and Marlee couldn’t tell whether she had heard her.

  Nigel barked.

  “Shut up, you stupid Airedale!”

  Marlee poured herself a glass of wine, drank half of it in a gulp.

  Wise up, Marlee. Make up your mind what you are.

  Twenty-seven

  Sometimes his daughter’s intelligence could be a problem. It had taken all of his tact and cajoling to get her to stay in her room with her crayons and be happy about it.

  “How come I can’t go out and play?” Laura had asked.

  “‘Cause you’re just getting over being sick,” Ed Delaney had said.

  “Why do I have to go to my room if I haven’t been bad?”

  “’Cause your old man has to do some work on the phone.”

  “How come you don’t do that at work?”

  Ed Delaney didn’t have a good answer for his ten-year-old, or himself. Now, with Laura in her room, he got the number and dialed.

  “Horning police, Sergeant Dibble speaking.”

  “Sarge, this is Detective Ed Delaney from up in Bessemer, shield number four-one-six. Could I talk to one of your detectives?”

  Delaney got switched through with no trouble. He wasn’t surprised that the detective who answered was familiar with the case of Sperl, Edmund, apparent suicide. The Horning police department wasn’t that big.

  Delaney kept it casual for a few minutes, letting the other guy talk, getting a sense of how trusting and trustworthy he might be. Then Ed Delaney got to the point: “I’d appreciate it if we could go unofficial and just talk cop to cop from here on.”

  The next morning, Ed Delaney sent Laura to her room again to play with crayons after promising to rent a movie for her to watch on the VCR that evening. Next he sat down with his third cup of coffee, called headquarters, and told Jean Gilman he’d be a little late. Then he dialed the Fraternal Order of Police, intending to get the latest whereabouts and phone number of retired Detective Captain Raymond McNulty.

  Before anyone answered, Delaney’s instincts kicked in and he hung up. He didn’t want that many people to know he was calling Ray McNulty.

  Delaney thought he remembered the name of the Florida Gulf Coast town where McNulty had gone in retirement. After trying the wrong area code the first time around and shooing Laura back into her room once, he got the number and dialed.

  “Hello.” The hoarse voice hadn’t changed.

  “Captain, this is Ed Delaney calling from Bessemer. How the hell are you?”

  “Eddie! Don’t you know I’m not a captain anymore? God, it’s been a long time. Has the snow melted up there yet?”

  “It’s July, for God’s sake. We do have summers here.”

  “Yeah, short ones. How’s all the good people?”

  “We’re busy as hell. Trying to do more with less. You know.”

  “It was ever thus. Jean Gilman turned out to be a decent partner, I guess. Keeps her cool pretty well for a woman?”

  “She’s fine, fine. Good cop.” McNulty would never change, Delaney thought. He had an incurable prejudice against female cops.

  “And that sweet little girl of yours, how’s she?”

  “Laura’s fine, fine. She keeps me busy.”

  “Don’t they always.”

  Ray McNulty talked for a couple of minutes about his job as security manager at a large trailer park for retired people, and how, unlike Bessemer, they didn’t have too many problems with “Third World types.” Then he told Ed Delaney about his wife’s back problems and his own arthritis, and how glad they were not to have to shovel snow anymore.

  Finally Delaney said, “Ray, remember how every so often we used to have one of those little chats that never even happened?”

  “Sure, Eddie.” McNulty’s voice had turned cold serious.

  “This is one of those chats.”

  “Whatever it is can be between you and me and the God of Irishmen, Eddie. You know that.”

  “This is about that priest in the basement with the golf club sticking out of his head.”

  Ray McNulty exhaled with a long, low whistle. “God in heaven, Ed Delaney. What’s your interest in that after all these years?”

  “That Gazette guy, Ed Sperl, was bugging me about it just before he died. Oh, did you know about that?”

  “Yep. My daughter sends me the Bessemer paper every so often. A straight shooter, Ed Sperl. Too bad.”

  Delaney couldn’t have disagreed more about Ed Sperl, but he wasn’t about to say so. He told McNulty about Sperl’s reawakened interest in the slain priest, but he glossed over the details of Sperl’s apparent suicide. And he didn’t say a word
about having asked a Horning detective to copy the file on Sperl’s death, including the pictures, and send it via Express Mail to him at his home instead of headquarters.

  “I learned a lot from you, Ray. About keeping my ass from being bitten off by the sharks in the department, about being a good detective.”

  “You always had what it took, Eddie. If you’d played politics better, you’d be captain now. But you’re like your father, God rest his soul. You don’t always go along. What did you call to ask me?”

  “When the priest got killed, who told you to lay off?”

  “Ah, me.” There was another long, low whistle, and when McNulty’s voice came back, it was shaky. “You’re sure you want to ask me that?”

  “I’m sure. I remember you said, ‘This is a Catholic town.’ Who?”

  “It was Chief Potenza who gave me the word, Eddie. Real clever he was, giving me the word in such a way that he couldn’t be blamed and I couldn’t miss the message. Sly dago, that’s how he got to be chief, God rest his soul.”

  “This is a Catholic town,’ you said. Did that mean Potenza got the word from the diocese?”

  “You figure it out, Eddie. Back then, we had Chief Potenza and Bishop Ciccarelli. The bishop was worried about the image of the diocese, and the chief was worried about going to heaven.”

  “That would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yep. We both remember how that priest looked, Eddie. Didn’t take a genius to figure it out. Who knows, maybe it was all for the better. We probably wouldn’t have caught the guy anyhow. At least the priest’s family didn’t have to see the corpse dragged through the mud, the way it worked out.”

  “The family was from out of town. Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I think. Did they have money?”

  “I never got deep enough into the case to find out, Eddie. I always figured maybe. Money talks in the church, too.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “Let it be, Eddie. That’s my advice.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Every so often, maybe once or twice in a cop’s career, something comes along that’s just too dangerous to get close to, for one reason or another. That priest with the golf club in his brains was the thing in my career.”

  “I’ll watch out.”

  “Do that. Call me again when you want to talk about fishing and sunshine.”

  “Thanks, Ray. Thanks for talking to me.”

  “Thanks for what, Eddie? We never talked.” And with that, retired Detective Captain Raymond McNulty hung up.

  Delaney waited until Jean Gilman was out of the office before dialing the Gazette.

  “Marlee West speaking.”

  “Hi. It’s Ed Delaney.”

  “Ed, hi. Listen, I’m sorry but I just can’t make the counseling session tonight. The reunion starts tomorrow and I have to take my dog to the vet, and I’ve just got too much to do.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know, but he hasn’t been eating, and I can tell from the look on his face that he’s sick.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  “Me, too. I’m getting out of here a little early to go to the doctor.”

  “Do you need a ride?”

  “No. I have my car back, and it’s running fine, thanks to Rick.”

  “So, you’re going home and then right to the vet?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Why don’t I meet you at your place and drive you.”

  “Oh. That’s real nice, but I can manage.”

  “I wanted to talk to you about Ed Sperl. I have some new stuff.”

  “Oh. Okay. I’m leaving in about ten minutes.”

  “See you at your place.”

  Ed Delaney stopped in front of Marlee West’s house. He put the Express Mail envelope from the Horning police under the driver’s seat, then got out and stood by the car.

  He had half-expected to hear Marlee’s dog barking. When he didn’t, he found himself worrying. The thought of Marlee heartbroken made him sad, and that realization startled him. Now that he thought of it, he could have arranged to meet Marlee later in the evening, instead of driving her and her dog to the veterinarian.

  It was a pleasant July, soon-to-be-August afternoon. Warm, not oppressive. On a whim, he stepped onto Marlee’s front yard, plucked a few blades of grass, sniffed the green smell, and tossed them away.

  He saw an old woman standing on the porch next door, looking at him suspiciously.

  “How are you today?” Delaney said.

  Delaney wasn’t sure if the woman nodded, but he was sure she was uneasy.

  Marlee drove up. “Hi, Ed. Hi, Mrs. Wemple.”

  At last, the old woman on the porch smiled broadly and waved.

  “She’s the one who called the police the night of the prowler,” Marlee said.

  “She was giving me a suspicious eye.”

  “I kept Nigel inside today, in case it got too hot. Stupid Nigel, I don’t know why the hell he has to do this.”

  They went inside.

  “Nigel! There you are, baby.”

  The Airedale shuffled toward Marlee and glanced without much interest at Ed. Delaney didn’t know much about dogs, but he could tell from the animal’s eyes that it was hurting.

  On the way to the vet, Delaney didn’t even mention Ed Sperl. It was obvious that, for the moment, Marlee cared only for the dog in the backseat. After Marlee told him the vet’s address and nearest cross street, Ed told her to relax, that he knew the way (“I used to drive a patrol car, remember?”), and that he would even turn on his siren if it looked as if there was an emergency. Then Ed wondered if he was caring too much about this heart-on-her-sleeve woman and her dog.

  The veterinarian told Marlee he didn’t know what was wrong, but that Nigel was in no immediate danger. The vet said he would keep Nigel overnight and do some tests in the morning if Nigel didn’t perk up.

  “Do you want me to tell you what I found out about Ed Sperl?” Delaney said on the ride back to Marlee’s.

  “Oh, yes. I can think better now.”

  “Under my seat, I have the complete file from the Horning police, which I’ll go over with you when we get to your place. It includes the pictures.”

  “No thanks, I don’t want to look at the pictures. But what …”

  “His gun was approximately where you’d expect it to be. There were no other fresh bruises or injuries indicating a struggle. No drugs in his system, only alcohol. Plenty of that.”

  “So it does look …”

  “There was no note, but I can tell you from experience that that doesn’t mean much. What else? … There was quite a bit of blood in the car, indicating that that’s where death occurred.”

  “Did anyone see him before he died?”

  “The Horning police interviewed the bartenders who were working that night. One remembered serving Sperl earlier in the evening. Remembered he had several drinks.”

  “Then what?”

  “And that’s it, almost. Next thing anyone knows about Ed Sperl, he’s found dead in the car the next morning. Nothing solid pointing to anything but suicide.”

  “So no one heard a shot, obviously.”

  “No. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. The car was in a far corner of the lot, about as far from the tavern as it could be. Ed’s gun was a .32 revolver. That’s a nice medium gun, and it doesn’t make a loud noise.”

  “Come in. Let me offer you a glass of wine. Or a beer.”

  Ed Delaney sat in an easy chair and went over the details. He kept the photographs—Ed Sperl with his eyes open and death-glazed in the car, Ed Sperl lying naked on a metal autopsy table—in the envelope. Marlee sat on the sofa, sipping wine, her feet up on the table. Ed thought she looked tired.

  “So that’s it,” Marlee said finally. “I hope this didn’t take up too much of your time.”

  “That’s all right. It’s my time to do what I want.”

  “And there’s
nothing to indicate he didn’t kill himself?”

  “Nothing that can be put in any kind of official way,” Delaney said carefully. “You can’t always put your feelings in a report.”

  “What?”

  “My gut feeling is that something might be wrong with this. Ed Sperl had more than twice the legal amount of alcohol in his blood, assuming he had tried to drive. But the bartender doesn’t remember serving him anywhere near that.”

  Delaney paused, saw from Marlee’s face that she knew he had more to tell.

  “Another thing,” Delaney went on. “When Ed was done at the bar, he went to a corner table and talked to a guy for a little while.”

  “Well, what about that other guy?”

  “No description. The other bartender—not the one who served Sperl at the bar—thinks that the guy with Sperl bought a couple of six-packs just before he and Sperl left around the same time. He wasn’t sure they left together, and he very definitely couldn’t provide a description of the other guy.”

  “All right. You said your gut tells you something’s wrong about Ed’s death. Tell me why you feel that.”

  “It’s, it’s too pat in some ways, and in others … Okay, Ed Sperl is sitting in his car, which just happens to be in the farthest, darkest part of the lot, and he gets stinking drunk. There’s empty beer cans in the car, in a paper bag.”

  “The six-packs the other guy bought?”

  Delaney shrugged. “So let’s say Sperl gets real drunk, and he decides to shoot himself, but he wants his car to be neat, so he puts the cans in a bag. I’m not sure about that.”

  “Well, was he too drunk to shoot himself?”

  Delaney chuckled without mirth. “I’ve seen DWI cases in which someone’s blood alcohol level is so high you’d swear he couldn’t crawl, much less get into a car. So we’d have to say he could shoot himself.”

  “But why would he, all of a sudden?”

  Delaney shrugged again. “Another thing is the gun in his hand. In the pictures it doesn’t look quite right to me. It’s hard to explain exactly. I’ve seen my share of gun suicides. None of the ones I’ve seen were holding their guns the way Sperl was. Do I think it was too loose in his hand, or too tight? I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  “Could someone have put it in his hand?”