by John Luciew
The description was terse but complete: “Six-shot Webley Mark I revolver, circa 1887. Four-inch barrel, three digit serial number, single digit inspector’s mark on frame and barrel, naval acceptance mark, ‘N.’”
Following the description were the words, “to my only child, Clayton Shaw Stanhope II.”
“It went to his boy,” I said. “He willed the Webley to his son.”
Buzz drew closer with his flashlight for a better look. “That was twenty-nine years ago,” he said. “Maybe the kid sold it or something. Would a son really keep the gun that killed his father?”
“He kept it,” I said, as sure of it as anything. “It was his dad’s prized possession. The only thing a young boy had to remember his father by. The only legacy a Stanhope man had left to uphold.”
I turned to Buzz. “He kept it, all right. And now he’s using it to get revenge.”
Chapter 52
We called Det. Dave Langhorne with the news. He had news of his own.
“The ballistics match,” the detective informed Buzz, who was seated on a couch in my darkened living room. I hovered over him, straining to hear both sides of the conversation. “The slug from the plow truck driver was fired from the same gun that Clayton Stanhope used to kill himself twenty-nine years ago,” Langhorne went on.
“It’s a match,” Buzz whispered to me while holding the receiver’s mouthpiece.
But I knew it before Langhorne ever called.
“So we have the murder weapon and we know who it belongs to,” Langhorne continued, as Buzz held out the receiver and I leaned in to hear. “Now we just have to find this bastard son. I’ve been checking records. The Stanhopes left the state in late ’81. Moved to Arizona. Mrs. Stanhope died in 2001. But there’s no record of a Clayton Shaw Stanhope Jr. after ’84. No school records, no driver’s license, no draft registration.”
“I need to talk to him,” I said, reaching for the phone. Buzz made a face and shooed away my hand.
“Anything else from the post?” Buzz asked. He nodded and hummed a few “uh-huhs”.
“Tellis wants to talk to you,” Buzz finally announced, then handed me the receiver.
“Dave, I know why he killed the other reporters,” I said. “Each of them covered critical aspects of the Stanhope story. All the coverage went against Stanhope. Everything.”
I provided Langhorne with a brief synopsis of each murdered journalist’s story.
“There’s a definite pattern,” Langhorne agreed. “That’s why I’m worried about you, Telly. We’re entering the endgame here, but we don’t have a fix on Stanhope’s son. Chances are he changed his name. That makes him harder to track. We have a last-known address for the mother. We’re starting there. We’re coordinating with Scottsdale police and the Phoenix field office as we speak. But as soon as we make our move, we tip our hand. If this guy’s watchin’, he’s gonna know we’re onto him. And he’s gonna want to finish his work. Do you hear what I’m sayin’, Telly? Sounds like you were the ringleader on the Stanhope story. If the kid’s settlin’ scores for his old man, I wouldn’t count on him forgettin’ about you. He may’ve been savin’ you for last all along.”
The same thought had crossed my mind about a hundred times in the last few hours. “So what should I do?”
“Well, you shouldn’t stay in your house tonight. That’s the first thing,” Langhorne said. “You need to keep an eye out at all times. We don’t have any pictures of the Stanhope kid. Nothing recent, anyway. He’d be around thirty-five. There might be some family resemblance. You remember what the father looked like?”
“I’ll never forget,” I said. “Only, when I see him, his eyes are rolled back in his head and blood’s running out of his mouth.”
“Cut that shit,” Langhorne snapped. “Don’t be gettin’ emotional on me, Tellis. And don’t be beatin’ yourself up for what happened twenty-nine years ago. You gotta focus. This here’s serious shit now.”
I didn’t like the quiver in the detective’s voice. “I know it’s serious,” I said. “But I never thought I’d hear you sound scared.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Shit, I ain’t scared,” Langhorne dismissed the very thought. “But you should be. That’s all I was tryin’ to say. Put Swanson back on.”
I handed the receiver to Buzz. The coroner’s expression grew increasingly confused the longer he listened.
“So what am I supposed to do with him?” Buzz asked at one point. The conversation finally ended with Buzz saying, “I think I got the perfect place, but I don’t think he’s gonna like it.”
Even I could hear Langhorne’s emphatic response come over the line. “Make him like it. Tell him if he wants to live, he’ll like it just fine.”
The phone went dead and Buzz held it out to me, not wanting to pry himself off the couch to hang it up. I took the receiver and replaced it in the cradle.
“Are you gonna tell me what that was all about?” I asked.
“Seems the detective’s a little stressed out,” Buzz observed.
“A little?”
“He says it’s not safe for you here. We’ve come up with a plan.”
“You two came up with a plan? For me?”
Buzz dipped his head. “It’s going to sound somewhat unconventional, but it’s actually very shrewd. Safe and comfortable, too.”
“Let’s hear it,” I said, not really sure I wanted to.
“We think it would be a good idea if you stayed at the morgue tonight,” Buzz timidly said.
“The morgue?” I shouted. “And what? I should sleep on the slab?”
“No.” Buzz waved a hand as if I were being silly. “I have a cot in my office. It’s actually very comfortable. Nice and warm, too, with that big boiler just down the hall. I’ve slumbered there myself on occasion.”
“What about your place?” I asked.
“I loath close quarters,” he said. “I really don’t like people. It’s why I work with the dead.”
“Then you sleep there,” I shot back.
“My back doesn’t like the cot.”
“Well, I ain’t dead yet. And I don’t belong in any morgue.”
“Langhorne and I feel this arrangement will keep you perfectly safe,” Buzz stated.
“I’m not sure I want to be that safe.”
“The detective was rather insistent.”
“He’s not the one sleeping with the dead.”
Buzz clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Telly. I have no customers at present. You’ll have the run of the place.”
“How’s your stash of booze?” I asked.
“Got you covered there, too. C’mon, let’s get going. Langhorne said I should drive you. He says to leave your car here so it looks like you’re at home. Says leave the lights on, too.”
“There are no lights, remember?”
“Well, leave the switch on for when the power comes back. See, I don’t know what you’re complaining about? Least my office has electricity.”
“Yeah, but it smells like formaldehyde and old bones.”
“Think of it as atmosphere,” Buzz cracked a smile, delighting at my predicament.
“Let’s go so we can tuck you in,” he said. “Just don’t snore too loudly tonight. You’ll give the janitor a heart attack.”
Chapter 53
The night was filled with strange noises and eerie sounds -- and not much sleep. The noises were all explainable. Moans from the ancient boiler down the hall. Knocks and pings from the network of old pipes snaking throughout the basement. The hiss of steam from hot radiators. None of it had anything to do with my macabre sleeping quarters. At least, that’s what I told myself.
My lack of sleep was explainable, as well. As soon as I shut my eyes, my mind would replay Clayton’s Stanhope’s suicide. As much as I had tried to bury it and drink it away over the years, it was as vivid as if it were yesterday. The beads of sweat on Stanhope’s brow. The slight tremor in his hands. The mean,
efficient looks of the antique gun. The life’s blood pouring from his mouth, the blood so bright and glistening in the glare of those TV lights.
Stanhope’s suicide was a vicious, violent act. But he wasn’t the victim. We were. All of those who he forced to witness his bloody, bitter end.
I awoke before seven, although waking really wasn’t the right word since I never actually slept. I rose from Buzz’s uncomfortable cot, folded it and wheeled it into a corner.
I quickly discovered that the early morning wasn’t the best time to look at Buzz’s medical case of specimen jars filled with formaldehyde and human tissue. And it wasn’t the time to stare at the old bones on the coroner’s worktable. I felt my stomach rising and tasted bile in the back of my throat.
I needed to get out of there. So I bundled up against the cold and set off on foot for the paper. I did so vowing that I’d never sleep in that awful place again. The next time I was horizontal in Buzz’s morgue, I’d better be dead.
At the paper, I settled in at my desk and scanned the day’s front page. Brett Macy’s story was stripped across the top. It was a story to which I was to have contributed. As it turned out, I had uncovered very valuable information, the most exclusive kind of news. I knew about the murder weapon used to kill the plow truck driver in Buffalo and its secret link to Clayton Stanhope and Harrisburg. I knew the weapon had been willed to Stanhope’s son and that he was the likely suspect -- a killer seeking revenge for his father. A son murdering his father’s media accusers, one by one. And I knew that I was probably next.
It would have made for a hell of a story -- a national scoop for sure. But I was more interested in stopping a killer than scoring banner headlines. I had generated plenty of headlines during the Stanhope scandal, only to end up spending years trying to forget them. Macy could have his headlines. He could have these and any others on this story.
As it was, however, Macy’s front-page article was little more than a serviceable rehash of the story Cassie Jordan had broken the day before in the New York Times. Macy had little that was new and nothing that was sensational. I was sure to scan each line in search of quotes from a distraught Eddie Moore. There were none. I had seen to that. But I felt some of Macy’s other passages were strikingly similar to Cassie’s words from the day before. Perhaps Macy had emulated Cassie’s story a bit too literally. Plagiarism was another disease plaguing the news business, but that was another story.
A voice from behind interrupted my thoughts. “Nice of you to help with that.”
I glanced over my shoulder at Bill Sharps. He was frowning, and the tone of his voice dripped with sarcasm. “What happened to you yesterday? You were supposed to assist.”
“I tried,” I said. “I went to see Buzz Swanson. He’s been in contact with Langhorne, just like I thought. But no one’s talking. Cops are keeping everything locked down pretty tight after the leak in the Times. I think they may have found the body of the plow truck driver up in Buffalo, but I couldn’t confirm anything. Maybe I’ll have better luck today.”
Just as Sharps opened his mouth to reply, my phone rang. I grabbed for the receiver and held up a finger to hold off my boss.
“Tellis,” I answered.
“Jesus Christ, there you are.” Langhorne released tension through his voice. “I was calling all over. Even sent Buzz down to the morgue to check on you. Christ knows what could have happened. Don’t disappear on me again, you hear?”
“I didn’t,” I said, struggling to keep my voice as natural as possible. I didn’t want Bill Sharps to know who was on the other end of the line. But I couldn’t just get rid of Langhorne. He probably had information, and I never knew when he’d call again. “I just went in to work, is all.”
“Good. Stay there. It’s probably the safest place.”
“Anything’s better than last night’s arrangements,” I put in. “So what’s up? You sound a little shook.”
I glanced at Sharps. My city editor was hovering at the entrance to my cubicle, studying me closely. I tried on a goofy, disarming smile and raised my index finger again, signaling that I’d just be a minute.
“I’m on my way back to Harrisburg now,” the detective said. “Feebs served a warrant on the mother’s last known address in Arizona.” Langhorne’s voice sounded grave. “No one was home, but they tell me the place was like a library. Some kinda museum or something. There were stacks and stacks of books and piles of paper. They found a copy of Hell Fires, that novel you mentioned that details the M.O. for the arson. There were copies of the Herald with pages missing. They’re checking whether the missing pages match the notes left by the killer. And there’s something else.” Langhorne stopped himself. It was as if he couldn’t bring himself to tell me.
“What?” I said, feeling the blood draining from my face even as tried to project normalcy for Sharps.
“Your stories were everywhere, Telly,” the detective resumed. “All your stories on Stanhope. Even more recent ones on the scandal involving the governor. He circled your byline on every one. Circled it in red.”
“Must be a real fan.” I tried to joke, but my voice sounded thin.
“Now Telly, you listen to me,” Langhorne said. “We’re gonna get this guy, you hear? It’s just a matter of time now. Your job’s to keep yourself safe in the meantime, understand? You stay at the paper till you hear from me. You got it?”
“Yeah,” I said, barely a whisper.
“Are you listening to me?” Langhorne pressed.
“I hear you,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”
“Of course you will,” he said. “You just sit tight.”
The phone went dead, and I replaced the receiver.
“Bad news?” Sharps asked. His question snapped me out of it. “You look a little shaken up.”
“No.” I shook my head. “Not at all.”
Sharps eyed me with suspicion. “I don’t know what you’re up to, Telly. But you’ve barely been in the office all week. First, you run off to Baltimore in the middle of the Dykstra case. Then you bitch like hell when we take you off of the Bressenhan story. You give interviews to other papers in what looks like spite. Then yesterday, I ask you to help out. I try to bring you back into the fold, and you disappear on me. What gives?”
I glanced sheepishly at my boss. “It won’t happen again.”
“No. It won’t. That’s because I got an assignment for you. It comes straight from the publisher.”
“What is it?”
“Senator Hollister is holding a press conference this morning,” Sharps announced. “Now that the Times has broken the story of the media murders, the senator can no longer hide behind the ongoing investigation. It’s clear he wasn’t the target in the Dykstra shooting, and the time has come for him to explain himself. A no comment just won’t cut it anymore. So he’s holding a press conference today to try and clear everything up.”
Sharps stared at me. “It’s your story, Telly. You started it. You finish it. The publisher asked for you personally. Angus wants to show Hollister who runs this paper. He wants to show him that no senator’s going to dictate which reporter covers a story.”
“I understand.” I began, then stopped, pausing to choose my words. “But don’t you think I’d be more useful on the murder story? I’m sure they found that truck driver’s body. Maybe there’s a new lead in the case. I could help.”
Sharps raised an eyebrow. “Like you did yesterday? No, Telly. You have the Hollister story. It’s a good story. Besides, it’s out of my hands. Even if I wanted you on the murders, it wouldn’t matter. What the publisher wants, he gets. You’re going to the press conference.”
Sharps handed me the press release. “It’s at 11 at the Wednesday Club. Hollister’s in town for some kind of business luncheon. He’s holding the press conference before hand, probably to get it out of the way so the media’s not hanging around, stalking all those important business leaders.”
I looked at the release, then back at my boss. “But
Bill--”
Sharps held out a hand, a signal for me to stop. “Make it a good one,” he said. “It’s going out front. Greenfield’s shooting it so we have fresh art. And Telly?”
“Yeah?”
“You can ask your tough questions, just don’t get personal,” Sharps smiled. “Remember, you already won. Enjoy watching Hollister grovel.” With that, my editor was gone from my cubicle.
I looked down at the press release again. “Sen. Hollister will take reporters’ questions for 40 minutes following a brief opening statement,” it said.
It should have read, “Holier-Than-Thou Hollister will attempt to cover his exposed, Republican ass with an all-out, song-and-dance attempt at damage control.”
I’d like to see him try. Yes, I’d cover Hollister’s dog-and-pony show. It would take my mind off of Clayton Stanhope and his deranged and dangerous son. And it would show me that there was still a little satisfaction to be had in this business.
Besides, I could count on security being tight. The would-be assassin may not have been targeting the senator, but Hollister wasn’t traveling anywhere these days without multiple bodyguards. He was probably still wearing his kevlar vest. I’d have to remember to ask him about that at the press conference.
Chapter 54
I rode with Wally Greenfield to the Wednesday Club. The photographer’s messy Subaru was absent his canine companion, Marx. But the car wasn’t missing the bloodhound’s odor -- or his hair.
My own hygiene and appearance were already suffering from a sleepless night in the morgue and the lack of a morning shave and shower. The musty odors and clinging dog hair would just make matters worse. As usual, Greenfield was oblivious.
“How do you like this for going in circles?” the photographer said.