The Hanging

by Wendy Hornsby

  “Marshall Bensen here, editor, owner, sole reporter and photog of the Gazetteer. What can I do for you, Ms MacGowen?”

  I was a bit taken aback when he knew my name. Without TV makeup and away from the flat frame of a television set, I don’t get recognized all that often. Twice in an hour was unusual. Bensen must have seen my surprise. He chuckled as he pulled his phone out of his pocket, flipped through its screens and held it up to show me the photo Karen Holloway had snapped of the two of us not five minutes earlier. The caption at the bottom was, “OMG, just me hanging with filmmaker Maggie MacGowen.”

  I said, “Word gets out fast around here.”

  “You can count on it. Dutch Holmborg was here when Karen sent that out—you just missed him. He told me you were in the diner a while ago asking about Park. He said you headed over to the library to talk to Karen. So, word’s out; no wonder newspapers are dying.”

  “Did he tell you what she and I talked about?”

  He chuckled. “Not yet. But if you want a full report, call back after dinner. Around here, Ms MacGowen, that would be noontime; at five we sit down to supper.”

  “Good to know.” I massaged my knuckles, still feeling the pressure of his dairyman’s grip. “And please, it’s Maggie.”

  His office was cluttered with back editions of the paper and stacks of clippings and who-knows-what-all. There were piles atop a row of old oak filing cabinets, on every shelf, and covering his ancient, scarred, wooden teacher’s desk.

  “Do you mind?” I asked, holding up my camera and gesturing toward the room.

  “Shoot away. I have an old green plastic visor somewhere, you want me to put it on?”

  I laughed. “Maybe later.”

  I snapped some stills, got a nice shot of Bensen leaning on his desk, precarious piles of paper on either side of him, and dropped the camera back into my bag.

  “What sort of archives do you have?” I asked.

  “Let’s see.” He looked around. “That back corner is roughly 1970 to 1985. Had an earthquake in ’eighty-five and there was a sort of avalanche back there, so there’s no particular order to it. If you’re looking for something in particular between 1985 and 2002, you just figure that every pile is about three years high and work your way around the office going clockwise, and you may find what you’re looking for.”

  “Interesting system,” I said, eyeing the clutter with dismay. I didn’t have time, Fergie didn’t have time, to hunt through the mess for possible nuggets from Holloway’s early life and political campaigns.

  “I inherited it as-is from the previous owner,” he said. “Everything before 1980 when he bought the paper is in the filing cabinets, and everything after 2002, when I came aboard, is available online.”

  Because of his grin I knew there was a punch line coming. I waited for it: “’Course, you can just go over to the library and find the old issues on microfilm.”

  “That’s a big help.”

  “Karen’s had the Historical Society working on an index for about ten years now. I think they’re up to the ’nineties.”

  He took another look around. “Every time I say I’m going to haul all the papers over to the recycling plant, the Historical Society promises they’ll come and get them. They just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

  He turned to me. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Not yet. Just background information on Park Holloway.”

  “We’ve been expecting some reporters to show up—Park Holloway’s passing is the biggest story around here since the heavy rains last winter—but you’re the first. And you’re not exactly a news reporter, are you?”

  “Not anymore, no. I’m working on a film about Holloway, not about his murder.” I set my bag on his desk chair, the only clear space I could see, and leaned my backside against the edge of the desk beside him.

  “Did you grow up in Gilstrap?”

  “Sure. Graduated from Central High in the class between his sons, Trey and Harlan. My family goes to the same Lutheran church as Karen and the boys, so I’ve known them all my life.”

  “How well did you know their father?”

  “He wasn’t around all that much. I saw him at the Republican picnics every summer, and walked his precinct one year—it was a school assignment—but usually when he was in town he was giving speeches to the Lions or the Kiwanis or the various farm co-ops or some other big group. It’s not like he showed up at Little League practice, though he did go to some of the high school games when Trey was drawing a big crowd.”

  “Did anyone around here ever explain why he left Congress?”

  “Not really. There was plenty of gossip but no substantial information. I was a senior at UC Davis then, journalism major, of course. I tried to get an interview with him for the college paper, but his office sent a form letter. You know, the usual thanks-for-your-support-and-good-luck-to-you B.S.”

  He found a notebook and a pen amid the rubble on the desk; I was wondering when he, the local reporter, was going to get around to asking questions of his own.

  “You found Holloway, right?”

  When I nodded, he asked for details and I gave him the usual demurrer: I saw him, I called 911, the end. He took notes as I spoke, and when I finished, kept his pen poised.

  “You have a film to make,” he said. “And I have a paper to get out. But I’m getting precious little information from anyone. As soon as I heard something happened to Holloway, I called the LA County Sheriff’s press office for information, but got nothing from them except confirmation it was Holloway and time and place of death. ‘Ongoing investigation,’ they said. ‘Coroner hasn’t released cause of death,’ they said. Took me half of Saturday to find out who the investigating detectives are, but they basically told me to piss off.”

  “They’re a charming pair,” I added. “You can quote me.”

  He made a note as he continued with his tale of woe.

  “The college public relations office referred me to the Sheriff’s press office. You’ll find a message from me on your campus phone. I was kinda hoping when I saw you coming in that you got the message and you were coming to tell me what you know.

  “So far I have the official press release and local reaction for the story. I think Holloway’s community deserves more, Maggie, if only to put a stop to some of the more lurid gossip out there.”

  “When does your paper run?”

  “Wednesday. You going to help me?”

  “That’s only fair,” I said, and did. I asked him to call me a reliable source and to leave my name out of the article, though everyone in town would know I was the source by the time the paper came out. Leaving out gory details, I told him why I went to the administration building and what I saw: Park Holloway had a head injury, and was hanged. The coroner was working on the autopsy as we spoke, and might have a preliminary cause of death to announce by late afternoon.

  Just to be nice, I pulled out my electronic notebook and showed him the footage I had shot of the empty stairwell, the footage that was too dark for my film and that had sent me back later on Friday to try again. Bensen was excited to see the scene of the crime. I isolated a frame and sent it to the email address he recited for me as he walked over to his computer and opened his mailbox.

  “Hah!” he exulted as the image came up. “That’s my front page. You give this to anyone else?”

  “It’s your exclusive.”

  He was writing that down when the front door was suddenly and forcefully yanked open, creating a sudden air gust that sent random bits of paper fluttering around the room. The young man who strode in was red in the face and shook with rage.

  “You shut up, Marsh,” he ordered, jabbing a finger toward Bensen. “This busybody is poking around into stuff that is none of her damn business, understand? I don’t want you talking to her.”

  “Hi, Harlan,” Bensen said, outwardly ignoring the man’s wrath, speaking calmly, staying exactly where he was when the door ope
ned. “How’s it hanging?”

  “I’m warning you.”

  “Message received. Harlan, I want you to meet Maggie MacGowen.”

  “Hello, Harlan.” I offered my hand, which he only glared at, and tried to sound as composed as Bensen had, even though I felt anything but. Harlan looked strung out, thin, unwell, not amenable to reason. I said, “I knew your father. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “And you stay away from my mother.” His finger veered from Bensen to jab at the air in front of me.

  The door opened a second time, more gently this time. The young man who entered was a tan, fit version of Harlan. He looked as if he had been running.

  “What are you doing here, Trey?” Harlan demanded, jaw clenched, seething with anger.

  “Mom called, said she saw you drive by.” Trey Holloway held out his open palm. “You want to give me the truck keys?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You get picked up one more time on that suspended license and you’re going straight to jail. Don’t expect me and Mom to bail you out this time. Hand me the keys and I’ll drive you home. Now.”

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said, Harlan. Now give me the keys. Jackie can only cover my class for the rest of this period, so I don’t have time to screw around with you.”

  Harlan glared at each of us in turn, let out a long hot huff, and then gave his brother the keys.

  “Let’s go,” Trey said, moving toward the door.

  “I’ll walk home,” Harlan said, defiantly.

  “You’ll get in the truck and I’ll drive you. The frame of mind you’re in, I don’t want you getting into mischief. Let’s go.”

  Trey opened the door and gestured for his brother to go through. Harlan hesitated just to make a point, but he went. Before he followed his brother out, Trey gave us each a nod.

  “Ma’am, Marsh. I apologize for the intrusion.” And he was gone.

  We waited in the sudden quiet, heard truck doors close, the engine start, and the truck drive away.

  As the air settled after them, Bensen sighed and turned to me.

  “There’s a story I would like to write some day,” he said. “The brothers Holloway.”

  “Yes?”

  “Everyone says that Congressman Holloway was the smartest kid ever to graduate from Central High. Until Trey came along.”

  “He’s really intelligent?” I said, hoping he would continue.

  “Yes. And he’s about the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Gets that from Karen. He could have been anything he wanted, but here he is, teaching at his old high school. His mother keeps telling him he doesn’t have to stay in Gilstrap, but as long as she’s alive and Harlan needs managing, he won’t go anywhere.”

  “Why does Harlan need managing?”

  “Something’s wrong with the way he’s wired.”

  I checked my watch. “I have a plane to catch,” I said.

  He asked a few more questions, we exchanged cards, and said good-bye.

  I drove out of town, headed for the airport. As soon as I reached the Interstate, a silver Ram pickup appeared in my rearview mirror and stayed there until I entered the rental car lot at the Sacramento airport. Before I got out of the car, I texted the truck’s license plate to Roger and told him I had been followed. He would know what to do with the information.

  I was in the boarding lounge waiting for my flight to be announced when Max finally called.

  “Lana is a cold, hard bitch,” was his greeting.

  “Not going well, then?”

  “We’re finished. I knew when I walked in this morning what we would end up with. I just had to go through the dance with her and the network bun boys.”

  He ran through the terms: budget, deadline, network support, ownership rights, and many pages of the usual boilerplate.

  “Did they actually sign?”

  “They did,” he said. “And I initialed on your behalf as your agent. Meet me at the Pacific Dining Car on Wilshire and Twenty-seventh in Santa Monica for dinner and we’ll get this puppy signed and couriered back to Lana tonight.”

  I told him where I was and we figured that I could meet him by six.

  “What about Guido and Fergie?” I asked. “Don’t they need to sign contracts as well?”

  “We had to make some concessions, kiddo,” he said. “So here’s the deal: you are not a network employee on this one, you’re an independent contractor, a production company leasing network facilities. You can hire whoever you want, and using your old independent production company banner, you will pay them. The network takes no responsibility for them, and you even get to negotiate with their unions all by yourself.”

  “That stinks,” I said.

  “Welcome to the new economy, honey. The good news for you is that they asked for first rights of refusal on your next project. If they pick it up, the numbers go up exponentially. And we both know they won’t be able to refuse the next project because the topic is too compelling.”

  “We know what the next project will be?”

  “We do,” he said. “It’s Isabelle.”

  He was right, but I didn’t feel ready to work on a film about my biological mother, a murder victim. When he told me how much we would be paid I felt a little better. Business concluded, I offered him Jean-Paul’s Philharmonic tickets. He was delighted. He said he would call Mom right away and work out details; Thursday was Mahler night.

  The phone was still in my hand when it rang again. Caller ID said it was a private caller, but I answered instead of letting it go to message, something I rarely do.

  I waited for the caller to speak first.

  “Is this Maggie MacGowen?” A female voice, nothing distinctive about it.

  “Who is calling, please?”

  Without saying another word, she hung up.

  Chapter 14

  I had just bailed my car out of the Burbank airport parking lot when my phone rang again. The ID showed the central switchboard number for college, so it could have been anyone at Anacapa. I punched the speakerphone button and said hello.

  “Maggie, you gotta help me,” Sly whispered hoarsely, obviously stressed. “The cops have come to get me.”

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Lew’s office.”

  “Where are the cops?”

  “In the gallery talking to Lew. I heard them say they want to talk to me. What do I do?”

  “Cooperate with them,” I said. “Go with them if they ask you to, but tell them you can’t talk until your lawyer gets there. Did you call Max?”

  “I don’t know his number.”

  “Sure you do,” I said. Max had taken care of Sly’s legal issues since the kid was nine years old.

  “The number’s in my phone. But I don’t, like, know it. Yours is the only number I could remember right now.”

  “Where’s your phone?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere around here,” he said, sounding frazzled. “Maggie, there’s been some trash talk about me killing the president. I have a real bad feeling.”

  “Listen to me. You’ll be fine. Go into the gallery and say hello to the police. You can tell them your name, but after that, no matter what they say to you, tell them you’re waiting for your lawyer. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call Max right now.”

  “Okay, but are you coming?”

  “Yes, Sly, I’m on my way.”

  I told him where I was and about how long it would take me. Then I called Max.

  “Damn, and I was all set for a great steak dinner,” was his first comment. He was already in the car and would be there as soon as the gods of traffic allowed.

  Sly was at the Anacapa police station, a block off Main Street, when I located him. He was in the main bullpen, arms crossed over his skinny chest, looking like an abandoned puppy.

  Detective Thornbury, focused on a computer monitor, dropped his head in dismay when I walked in.
/>   “They’ll let just about anybody walk in here, won’t they?” he said.

  I shrugged and turned to Sly. “How are you doing?”

  Sly raised a hand toward his mouth and gestured that he’d put a lock on it.

  “You’re not the lawyer the kid says he’s waiting for,” Thornbury said.

  “No. His lawyer is Max Duchamps and he’s five or ten minutes out.”

  “Max Duchamps?” Thornbury sneered. “Yeah, sure. And his nanny is Mother Teresa.”

  “Sly never had a nanny.”

  We heard a bit of a stir out at the front desk, manned by a community volunteer whose only compensation was the right to wear a uniform shirt and a badge when he was on duty. Then Max bustled in as if blown by the coming storm. There were raindrops on his shoulders.

  “It’s raining?” I asked.

  “Just started,” he said, kissing my cheek on his way over to Sly. “How’s it going, kid?”

  The relief Sly felt when Max walked in was written all over him. He rose from his chair and wrapped his arms around my uncle.

  “Hey, Max. Thanks for coming, man.”

  Thornbury, eyes wide when he saw Max in the flesh, managed to say, “I was beginning to think the boy was a mute.”

  Max winked at Sly, showing approval for his silence. Then, with a protective arm still wrapped around Sly’s shoulders, he addressed Thornbury.

  “What’s up, Detective?”

  “We only wanted to ask Mr. Miller here a few questions. But he doesn’t want to talk to us for some reason, so we brought him here to wait for you. Coulda taken care of this in five minutes back at the college, but if this is the way you want it to go...”

  “It is,” Max said. “Now that I’m here, let’s have your questions.”

  He sent Sly back to his chair and pulled one up close beside him. I hovered behind them, the fly on the wall.

  Thornbury asked Sly about the meeting with Holloway on Friday morning.

  “He sent someone to ask me to go up to his office,” Sly said. “He told me that my sculpture, the one you saw me working on in the gallery, was only going to hang for a year. I told him it was supposed to be there permanently, and he said he wanted to put something else in that space—on the floor—and too bad for me.”