Show of Evil

by William Diehl

  'You're one weird prosecutor, Marty,' Venable said.

  'I want all the details before I decide what we're going to do to her. If we let Eckling loose on her, I'll never have that opportunity. Talk to her, Janie.' He smiled at her. 'Then I'll buy dinner.'

  'Shit,' Venable said, and walked down the hall towards the fingerprint room.

  Parver looked at Vail with a smirk.

  'I thought you two hated each other.'

  'We're trying to get over it,' Vail said.

  Harvey St Claire had made myriad phone calls to the Catholic cathedral, the custodian, two priests, and finally to a nun named Sister Mary Alice before he finally got an answer to his question.

  'Sister,' St Claire said, frustration apparent in his tone, 'I'm trying to find out what happened to all the books in Bishop Rushman's library. Nobody seems to know.' '

  Who did you say this was again?' she asked. 'M'name's Harvey St Claire. I'm with the DA's office.'

  'You work for Mr Vail?'

  'That's right, he's m'boss. You know him?'

  'I met him once, years ago,' she said. 'I know it's none of my business, but does this have anything to do with Aaron Stampler?'

  'That's very incisive of you, Sister. How did you guess?'

  'Well, you work for Mr Vail and he defended Aaron. A book from the bishop's library was an important part of the evidence.'

  'You remember that?'

  'I just remember it had something to do with the murder. That was a long time ago.'

  'So do you know where those books are now?'

  'Do you know the Newberry on Walton Street?'

  The Newberry Library was an imposing, burly, five-storey brick building with a triple-arched entrance that occupied an entire block of West Walton. It had just celebrated its one hundredth anniversary and there was about the formidable old sentinel of a structure a sense of antiquity and conservatism. It had been endowed by businessman William Loomis Newberry to be an uncommon collection of uncommon collections', and so it was. A pleasant woman who identified herself as Miss Prichard, the assistant librarian, chatted amiably as she led St Claire down hallways through arroyos of books, maps, and documents.

  'Did you know this was the first electrified building in the city?' she asked, pointing towards the ceiling of the lobby. 'That's why the bulbs in that chandelier are pointed downwards, so people would know. Gas lamps won't work upside down, of course.'

  'Is it always this cool in here?'

  'We have climate control for twenty-one miles of books and manuscripts, Mr St Claire,' she said proudly. 'We haven't lost a book in one hundred years.'

  'Quite a feat these days. Some people will steal anything.'

  'I should hope that our clientele is a bit more singular than that,' she said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

  The Rushman collection was in one of the rear chambers. It was a small room without windows and, except for the door, lined on all four sides with Bishop Rushman's books. An oak table contained three equally spaced brass table lamps with green shades. It occupied the centre of the room, surrounded by heavy, unpadded chairs. The place was as quiet as a mausoleum.

  It was a surprisingly diverse collection. Novels by Dostoyevsky and Dante sat beside the works of Rousseau, Hobbes, and Darwin. Leather-bound codes of canon law shared space with Faulkner, Hammett, and Chandler.

  St Claire eagerly pulled out a book and checked its spine. And his shoulders slumped. Rushman's peculiar method of indexing had been replaced by the Dewey decimal system. He looked around the room at the hundreds of books and realized that there was no way to identify C13 among all the volumes. He stared at the library for several minutes, trying to figure out if there was any correlation between the Dewey numbers and Rushman's old index numbers. He turned abruptly and went back to the office.

  'Ms Prichard, I notice the indexing system has been changed on the books in the Rushman collection.'

  'Oh yes, we had to go to the Dewey decimal system. All the books must conform, you know. What a mess it would be if we made an exception! But it was done without damage. We have never damaged a book.'

  'No, you don't understand. Did the Newberry, by any chance, keep a record of the bishop's indexing system?'

  'My, my, you are a purist, aren't you, Mr St Claire? Well, now, let's just go to the records.'

  She opened a narrow oak drawer and her nimble fingers danced along the index cards. She pulled one out, looked at if for a moment, and then handed it to him with a smile. It was labelled 'Huckleberry Finn'. In the corner of the Dewey card was noted: 'Rushman index: J03

  'Bless you,' St Claire said with a wide grin. 'Now all I have to do is go through all these cards, find C13, turn to page 489, and hope to hell I know what I'm looking for.'

  'I remember you,' Edith Stoddard said to Jane Venable. 'You handled the Robertson injury case. That was in 1990, as I recall.' She had recovered from the booking ordeal and seemed almost relaxed. She was seated at a tattered bridge table in a small holding cell adjacent to the processing station. The room was bare except for the table and a cot in the corner. She had been fingerprinted, strip-searched, and issued a pair of orange county-issue coveralls with the word PRISONER stencilled across the back. The sleeves were rolled back several times. Stoddard would be held there until court convened in the morning. Venable had a momentary flashback, remembering these same surroundings ten years earlier. Nothing seemed to have changed. The same blue-grey paint on the walls, the small barred window in one corner. 'That's right,' Jane Venable answered. 'You were a very nice person, but you were a ferocious negotiator,' Stoddard said bluntly but unassumingly.

  'That's what I get paid for - being a ferocious negotiator, I mean — not for being a nice person. Thank you for that.'

  'I don't need a lawyer, Miss Venable,' the prisoner said firmly.

  'Yes, you do. You never needed one more than you do right now,' Venable answered.

  'I'm guilty, Miss Venable.'

  'Please call me Jane.'

  'Jane. I just want to plead guilty and get it over with.'

  'There's more to it than that,' Venable said.

  'Not really.'

  'Listen to me carefully, please. You have to - may I call you Edith? Good. You have to realize that even if you did kill him-'

  'I did kill him!'

  'Okay. But you still must give your lawyer all your help so he or she can deal a proper sentence for you. Even if you don't go to trial, let whoever the judge assigns to the case save you as much time as possible.'

  'I don't want a trial, I told you that,' Stoddard said as firmly as she could.

  'It won't be a trial, it will be a plea bargain. It will be worked out between your lawyer and the prosecution.'

  'Mr Vail?'

  'Yes, or one of his prosecutors.'

  'Will it be made public, the negotiations?'

  'No.'

  'I don't know. I just… I want to get it all over with. My life is ruined anyway.'

  'Edith, who's going to take care of your husband? What's to become of your daughter?'

  'I'll be gone for years, anyway. What's the difference?'

  'If we can get this reduced down to, say, first - or possibly second-degree manslaughter, your sentence could be as light as, oh, ten years. You could be out in four or five. That gives both of them hope. It's not like you'd be going away for ever.'

  Stoddard stood up and walked to the window. She stared out at the brightly lit highway in front of the criminal building, watched a semi lumber by, listened to a dog barking somewhere far off in the night. She sighed very deeply and seemed to collapse into herself.

  'Will you do it?' she asked, turning back to Venable.

  'Do what?'

  'Handle it for me?'

  'I'll get you to court tomorrow. Then - '

  'No. I mean handle it all the way.'

  'I have -'

  'It's just sitting with Mr Vail and working it out, isn't it? Can that take so much time?'

 
'It's not time, it's… I haven't done this for years. I'm afraid I'm rusty. There are other lawyers out there more qualified than I am.'

  'Then let me go ahead and tell the police what they want to know.'

  Venable sighed. She looked at the small woman for a moment. 'Will you level with me?' she asked. 'Tell me everything I need to know to make the best deal for you?'

  'It depends.'

  'On what?'

  'On what you want to know.'

  Corchran's was a run-down mahogany and brass steak-house that smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. It was located a block from the river near the old Sun-Times building and had been a favoured hangout of Vail's for years. Two tired middleweights were waltzing each other on the big-screen TV in one corner and there was a noisy dart game in progress near the front of the restaurant. A dozen regulars sat at the bar watching the last round of the fight and yelling at the screen as Vail and Venable entered the tavern.

  'You do know all the right places, Vail,' she said, looking around the noisy watering hole.

  'Best steaks in town,' Vail said. 'Come on, it's quiet in the back.'

  They found a booth in a tiny back room that was shielded from the din. A sign over the archway into the niche said LADIES ROOM. It was decorated with facsimiles of old cigarette and beer ads.

  'I can see why there's nobody back here.' She snorted. 'No self-respecting lady would be caught dead in here. They ought to be up front with it and call the place the Chauvinist Pit.' She brushed breadcrumbs off the cushions with a napkin before she sat down.

  'You didn't tell me you've turned into a snob,' Vail joked.

  'I like a good Irish bar as much as the next person,' she said. 'But this place hasn't seen a broom in weeks. Has the health inspector heard about it?'

  'He wouldn't dare come in here,' Vail said. 'They'd throw him in the river. What do you want to drink?'

  'What're we eating?'

  'Steak, French fries, salad, hard rolls.'

  'Alka-Selzer.'

  Vail laughed. 'What'll you wash it down with.'

  'A Black Jack old-fashioned.'

  The waiter had a biscuit ear, knuckles the size of pin-balls, and a glass eye. His smile was missing three teeth.

  'Hey, Mart, how'th the boy, how'th the boy?' he lisped, plopping a brandy bottle with a candle stuck in it on the table and lighting it with a wooden kitchen match. 'Atmothphere,' he said.

  'Steamroller, this is Miss Venable. She may become a regular if you treat her right.'

  'Yeah?' Steamroller beamed. 'That would bring thome clath to the joint.'

  'Oh, thank you,' Venable said, flashing a smile that was almost sincere. 'Not that it needs it.'

  'Steamroller was heavyweight champion of Canada once,' Vail told her.

  'How wonderful,' she replied.

  'Yeah, I was on my way't' the top and some dinge knocked my eyeball out. Then the thon of a bitch thtepped on it, kinda ground his heel on it, kin ya believe it?'

  'What an engrossing tale,' Venable said. 'Ever thought about writing your memoirs?'

  Steamroller stared off at the corner for a moment, thinking, then said, 'Uh… I can't remember 'em.' Then he shrugged. 'Oh, well. Bushmill's thtraight up and a Corona fer the champ. How about chu, Mith… what wath it again, Vennie, Vinnie…'

  'Venable,' she said sweetly. 'Why don't you just call me Jane. A Black Jack old-fashioned.'

  'Aw right,' he said, flashing his shattered smile. 'I like a lady knowth how to drink.' He walked away, wiping his hands on a towel stuck in his belt.

  'Next time I'm taking you to Aunt Clara's Tea Room,' Venable said. 'All the waitresses are ninety and speak in old English.'

  'Cucumber sandwiches and lemonade?'

  'Exactly.'

  'Okay, tell me about Edith Stoddard.'

  'I can't do that. You're the enemy.'

  'Oh God, are we back to that?' he answered.

  'I'm going to represent her, Marty.'

  'What! I just wanted you to give her some advice until the judge gives her a…' He hesitated.

  'A real lawyer, is that what you were going to say?'

  'No, no. You know, one of the courthouse heavies. This isn't your game any more.'

  'It is now, and blame yourself. You sent me in there.'

  'Just to get her over the rough spots.'

  'Uh-huh. Well, it didn't work.'

  'What the hell happened?'

  'It was either me or she was going to dump the whole story on Eckling,' Venable said.

  Steamroller brought the drinks and plopped them down on the table. A little of the old-fashioned slopped over and he left licking his fingers.

  Venable leaned across the table and said in a low voice, 'There's something not quite kosher about this.'

  'How so?'

  'She's determined not to stand trial. She'll max out before she does.'

  'Why?'

  'You tell me.'

  'All I know is what Shock Johnson told me. She didn't tell you anything?'

  'If she did, I wouldn't tell you. But she didn't want to talk tonight. I told Eckling to leave her alone until morning. And I intend to make a little hay over that performance of his, you can bet your sweet ass on that, Mr District Attorney.'

  'Ahhh, one hour away from that platinum law firm of yours and you're talking like the old Jane I remember.'

  'I'm going to make this as tough as I can,' she said.

  'Tell it to Shana Parver. It's her case.'

  'What's the matter, afraid of me?'

  'The experience'll do you both good.'

  'How good is she?'

  'Brilliant lawyer. A little too antagonistic. You two should get along fine.'

  'Well, thanks.'

  Streamroller wandered back to the table.

  'You gonna order or are we jutht drinkin' tonight?'

  'How do you like your steak?' Vail asked.

  'Medium-rare.'

  'Make it pink,' Vail said to Steamroller. 'She doesn't want to have to stab it to death before she eats it.'

  'Do you have baked potatoes?' she asked.

  'Of courth! Whaddya think?'

  'And house dressing on my salad.'

  Steamroller looked at Vail and his brow furrowed. 'Houth drething?' he said.

  'Italian. I'll have the same.'

  'Gotcha.' And he was gone again.

  'Look,' said Venable, 'I haven't even seen the homicide report. All I know is what I read in the papers. And you didn't call with the details, as promised.'

  'You left early.'

  'I figured you'd be exhausted when you got home.'

  'I was exhausted when I left,' he said with a smile, then just as quickly turned serious. 'Look, from what Shock says, she could be headed for the fryer. She bought a .38 back in January, went to a shooting gallery over in Canaryville every night for two weeks, and learned to use it. She sure as hell can't plead self-defence, he was naked as Adam when he got it. Also she plugged him twice, once here' - he pointed to his heart - 'and once here.' He placed his finger over his right eye. 'That second shot was an afterthought. Delaney was already with the angels when she capped him with the head shot.' He held his arms out at his sides. 'Now you know all I know.'

  'Why would she risk life without parole rather than go on trial?' Venable mused.

  'Maybe she doesn't trust her lawyer.'

  'Cute.'

  'I don't know,' Vail said. 'You tell me.'

  Venable shrugged. 'Death before dishonour?'

  'She can't dishonour Delaney, he took care of that himself a long time ago.'

  'I wasn't thinking of him.'

  Vail thought for a moment, then said, 'Her husband? You think she had a thing with Delaney? Nah, no way. He goes in for bodies, not brains. She's a nice lady but hardly a raving beauty.'

  'Maybe he went in for anybody. I've known men like that.'

  He thought about it a little longer and shook his head. 'I can't see it. Besides, so what? I won't buy the spurned-woman defence.'r />
  'It's worked.'

  'Not with me.'

  'How about Parver?'

  'She's too hungry to buy it. And too smart. You'll have to do better than that for Stoddard to beat murder one.'

  'You're singing a little different tune than you were two hours ago.'

  'I said I'd be fair, I didn't say I'd give her any breaks.'

  'That confession won't hold up. She was stressed out, under duress…'

  'Hey, you going to make a thing out of this, Janie?'

  'I took the case, didn't I?'

  Fourteen

  The man leaned over his worktable, concentrating on the job of soldering a cobweb-thin piece of wire to a chip smaller than his fingernail. He was a husky man; his shirtsleeves were rolled up over machine-moulded biceps. A pair of magnifying goggles was perched on his nose.

  'Hey, Raymond, goin' to lunch?' Terry called to him.

  'Can't stop now,' Raymond answered without taking his eyes off his task.

  'Want me to bring you something?'

  'Yeah. Cheese crackers and a Coke.'

  'You got it.'

  Raymond heard the door slam shut. He finished the soldering job and placed the hot iron in a small, fireproof tray, took off the goggles, and leaned back in his chair. He stared through the window at the office across the way, watching the secretaries as they puttered around, getting ready to go to lunch. Creatures of habit, he thought. He could set his watch by their moves. Noon, five days a week, and they were out of there. He watched them until they left the office, then he walked across the small repair room choked with VCRs, TVs, and PCs and picked up a VCR and brought it back to the worktable. He removed the top and took out a small minicomputer and a black box about two inches square. He attached the box to the minicomputer with a short length of phone wire, then turned on the computer. He typed MODEM on the keyboard and a moment later a menu appeared on the screen. He moved the cursor to RECEIVE and hit enter. A moment later, the words ON LINE flashed in the corner of the screen. He watched the empty office across the way while he waited. Five minutes passed and the words INCOMING CALL flashed on the screen and a moment after that: