Wicked Is the Whiskey: A Sean McClanahan Mystery (Sean McClanahan Mysteries Book 1)

by T. J. Purcell

  “I didn't know that.”

  “Suicide is four times more common among males than females, but more than 75 percent of all suicides are committed by white males. And virtually all bridge jumpers are white males.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Suicide is an interesting subject,” he said. “Aside from this coroner gig, studying it is a hobby of mine. I keep a history of all suicides in Allegheny County dating back to 1901.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded.

  “Last year, we had 139 suicides in Allegheny County. Sixty-six shot themselves in the head. Thirty-five hung themselves. Twelve overdosed on drugs. Two took rat poison. Two slashed their wrists. Eight sucked exhaust fumes. Six jumped from bridges. And two threw themselves in front of trains.”

  “Two people ended their lives by jumping in front of a train?” I said.

  “Yeah, a gruesome way to go. Blood and limbs splattered along 50 feet of track.”

  He held the box up to me again.

  “Come on, have a donut.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “We track all suicide cases in Allegheny County to identify the causes and hopefully help prevent future suicides. But in Preston’s case there are a few things that may be inconsistent with suicide.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “First, why was Preston's body found so close to where it went into the water?”

  I shrugged.

  “You know from past cases that the will to live is remarkable. Even in the most desperate suicide cases, we know that once a bridge jumper hits the water, his will to live is rekindled and he will do everything he can to stay alive.”

  “OK.”

  “But if a jumper were to leap off a high bridge, such as the Birmingham Bridge in Pittsburgh’s South Side, he’d likely be so broken up he wouldn’t have much of a chance. Or worse, he could get stuck in the mud on the river floor.”

  “That can happen?”

  “Oh, yeah. In the spring, the rains pump so much silt into the Monongahela that the river’s floor is three-feet thick in muck. Don’t you remember the story of Bobby Weiss back in 1968?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Before your time. Weiss was a high school student whose girlfriend broke up with him at the prom at what was then the Hyatt Hotel. Well, he got drunk and, while walking across the bridge he decided to dive headfirst into the Monongahela. His body sliced through the water and penetrated the muddy river floor like a dart.”

  “Wow.”

  “It was three months before the muck washed away enough to allow his decomposed body to finally break free and float to the surface,” said Doc. “You sure you don’t want a donut?”

  “Positive, thanks.”

  “Now here’s what we know about Preston. The weather had been especially dry at the time Preston went into the water — for three weeks prior to that time. That means the river was at a near standstill. And Preston’s body was found very close to where it went in.”

  “Which means?”

  “He didn’t try to swim for the banks once he hit the water. Very unusual.”

  “I’m not following you,” I said.

  “The Maryville Bridge has one of the lowest bridge spans on the Monongahela. We only have one recorded suicide on that bridge since it was built in 1948 — a severely drunk man jumped in and was unable to save himself. We had three other reported attempts — these are only the ones we know of — and all three swam safely to the banks. Hell, we’ve heard stories of college Kids jumping off that bridge for fraternity pranks and swimming to the banks without so much as a bruise.”

  “And?”

  “Well, my autopsy finds that Preston did not suffer any physical damage that would have incapacitated him and prevented him from trying to swim to the bank, yet his body was found just a few feet from where he went in. That would mean he made no effort to save himself.”

  “Which might suggest he was unconscious or dead before he went in?” I said.

  “Not bad!”

  “But if he was dead before he went in,” I said, “then there would be no traces of river water in his lungs, proving he was murdered.”

  “That’s one of the things we checked, of course. The river water was in his lungs. It was the cause of his death. There is one other thing about Preston that has been nagging me, though — something that should interest you. We found a pinprick in his carotid artery.”

  “He’d been injected with a needle?”

  “It’s possible. We are still awaiting the toxicology results. One potential scenario could be that Preston was drugged, then tossed into the water. Depending on the type of drug and the amount, that could certainly contribute to his drowning.”

  “Things seem a little fishy to you?” I said.

  “You know, in my line of work things always seem fishy until proven otherwise. I live in a world of certain or uncertain. Though all that we are discussing here now is pure conjecture, it is still in the realm of the possible that the manner of Preston’s death was other than suicide. I haven’t yet completed my autopsy report for J.W. but if I were to file it today I would classify the manner of Preston’s death as uncertain.”

  “Other as in a potential homicide?”

  Doc smiled.

  “You said it, not I. I suppose you’re wondering, then, that if there is a potential homicide here, however slight the odds, then maybe the attractive young woman Erin Miller may not be so crazy as you originally thought?”

  I smiled.

  “Something like that,” I said. “And if Preston was killed then the killer may lead me to Erin, which is all I care about at the moment.”

  “Well, you know that J.W. doesn’t have to rule the cause and manner of death as I would do it were it a case that happened within Allegheny County. In fact, it is unlikely he will rule it as I would. He often ignores much of the details I send to him.”

  “He seems to have already made up his mind in that regard,” I said.

  “Nothing I can do about that. But there is one thing I can do for you.”

  “What’s that?” I said.

  He opened his desk drawer and began rooting around.

  “Offer you some beef jerky. I know I got some beef jerky around here somewhere.”

  Chapter #18

  “Kid, I think I may have something,” said Mick as I walked into the pub.

  He handed me a printout of an email that was sent to Preston. It was sent by a man named Adam Clive:

  “John, I'm glad you finally got to see how a real man conducts a workshop, as opposed to the feminized ones you have forced on men over the years. Haven't men had enough of such garbage in our highly feminized culture?

  “While I don't expect men to partake in our techniques on a daily basis, we employ them simply to shock the male spirit, to shock their primitive sensibilities, so that they can be restored to a natural equilibrium and balance. That is why we wrestle in the mud and drink whiskey around the campfire and make the occasional sojourn to exotic dancer clubs.

  “The fact is you seemed to be enjoying yourself that night, and I applaud you. I saw that you engaged our favorite waitress in lively conversation. Erin is one of the prettiest young women I have ever seen — despite her short hair. I prefer women with long hair, another way to celebrate a woman’s distinction from men. Perhaps she’ll tell you her story some time. My heart goes out to her.

  “Alas, John, I trust we can continue our dialogue. You're welcome to join us again to remember how real men live and breathe. Best, Adam.”

  “Who the hell is Adam Clive?” I said.

  “The name sounds familiar to me,” said Mick, “but I'm not sure.”

  I retrieved Maureen’s laptop from the office and Googled “Adam Clive.” Several links came up and I clicked the first, a biography on him.

  “Mick, he is a Pulitzer-prize winning poet and self-described tough guy,” I said, scanning the biography. “In the 1970's, he marched with feminist
s to fight for women's rights, but in recent years he has come to celebrate maleness.”

  “Maleness?” said Mick.

  “He says that achieving equality for women was one thing, but now women are trying to ignore biological differences between men and women. Too many believe men and women are the same. He says that some are attempting to destroy masculinity altogether. Clive had a tenured position at Carnegie Mellon University, where he apparently founded the neo-men's movement.”

  “The neo-men's movement?” said Mick.

  “He teaches men how to be men, how to embrace their primitive masculinity that he says has been lost in the last 20 or 30 years,” I said. “He left the university and now conducts retreats and seminars full time.”

  “Whatever the case,” said Mick, “he seems to know of a woman from a strip club who sounds a lot like Erin Miller. Looks like you've finally found yourself a lead.”

  And so I had.

  Chapter #19

  My headlights cut through the black of night like a welding torch slicing through sheet metal.

  Adam Clive’s assistant told me he was conducting a workshop for men in the mountains up near Ligonier, PA that evening. I left just before the sun went down and, about an hour later, was driving along dark country roads, having difficulty finding the campground.

  Just when I figured I was lost for good, I spotted a bonfire up on a hill to my left. I drove a little further down the road and saw an opening in the fence. I turned into the opening and drove over a grass field that was matted down by car tires. I drove the truck to the top of the hill.

  There was a thick chill in the mountain air. As I walked toward the brightness of the fire, I saw a dozen men laughing and cheering. They reacted to the words shouted by an elderly man who stood at the ridge of the hill.

  He had long gray hair and a gray beard; from 50 feet away and the shifting reflection of the fire bouncing off of him, he looked more like an apparition than a man. He spoke with bravado and energy. His voice ebbed and flowed and cracked with the currents of the cold country air.

  “We’ve been lied to, men,” he said. “Lied to in a thousand ways. We’ve been told we’re too aggressive, too violent, too insensitive. We’ve been told we have a feminine side and that we must embrace it. And too many of our brethren have heeded this ridiculous call. Too many men have gone soft.”

  The men cheered. They passed around a white jug with three big X marks on it and took hearty swigs.

  “Today, the landscape is polluted with sensitive new-age males. Touchy-feely males with soft voices and caring eyes. Males who cry at anniversaries and wedding showers — who clap heartily when junior uses the commode to do his first number two. But is this the kind of men our women really want?”

  “No,” shouted the men.

  “Is this the kind of father our sons can look up to?”

  “No,” shouted the men.

  “Men, when your wife comes home from the mall with a bag of new clothes for your son — a bag filled with color-coordinated knickers and suspenders and matching saddle shoes — you must speak up. Our sons are not play things to be decorated according to the fancy of our women. When your wife said, ‘Isn't it cute?’ do not say, ‘Yes, dear.’ You must say what our fathers and grandfathers would have said had our mothers attempted such a move: ‘No son of mine is going to wear a pair of damn knickers.’”

  The men roared. The elderly man continued.

  “Men, you must also reclaim control over the naming process of your sons. We must give our boys names like Tom, Sean, Jim and Joe. We must not let our women name them Gilad, Jeremy and, God forbid, Michelle.”

  More laughter.

  “Men, we must stop shopping at the mall with our women. We are men, for goodness sake, not girlfriends. Our dads never went along with this. When our mothers dragged our dads to the mall, our dads would make a scene: ‘I'm hungry,’ they'd say. ‘Will you buy something so we can get the hell out of here.’”

  “Men, we need to reclaim our inner fathers. We need to use fewer adjectives and more verbs. We need to talk on the telephone less and nap on the couch more. The garage is our special place, and it's nobody's business how messy it is. The barbecue, too, is ours alone and no child or woman is permitted near it.

  “We need to drink more liquor, eat more beef and cuss more. We need to spend more time with our sons in front of bonfires, singing camp songs and talking about sports. In dealing with our sons, we must be more rigid in our discipline with them as our fathers were with us. In dealing with the women in our lives, we must stop cowering and stand up for ourselves. It is what our sons and our wives really want. Now let’s eat.”

  The men jumped to the feet applauding and laughing.

  The old man, finished for now, walked over to a buffet table that was complete with hamburgers, steaks, barbecued chicken and pork. He was surrounded by his admirers, who also began digging into the food. Clive was making himself a pork barbecue sandwich as I approached him.

  “That was a fine speech,” I said to him.

  He looked up from the buffet with both hands now on his man-sized sandwich.

  “It’s a speech that few men have the guts to give in these politically correct times,” he said. “Men need to be men and women need to be women and that is our message here tonight.”

  Clive was a big man — big boned more than he was tall. He took a man-sized bite of his sandwich, then cracked open a 16 oz. can of Iron City Beer and took a good swallow. He offered me some food and beer, which I accepted.

  “You strike me as a man who quickly cuts to the heart of any matter, so let me oblige you,” I said. “What do you know about John Preston?”

  He chewed his sandwich for a good long while, then took a hearty swig of beer. He looked me hard in the eyes and I saw suddenly a great intensity in his — two black burning pieces of coal.

  “Here is how we met,” he said. “John found himself the unfortunate guest of a party at which I was also invited. I told the little bastard he was a large symptom of the movement to neuter men. He was the willing puppet of a feminist manifesto run amuck. And he needed to change.”

  “How did he respond?”

  “He surprised me. He turned out to be a feisty little guy. He was small, but he didn't back down for a moment. In fact, he challenged me to debate, and debate we did.”

  “You met with him?”

  “Sure, we met for dinner two or three times. This is going back three or four years now. And the conversations became so spirited, I admit I began taking a liking to the little fellow. I even began to respect him. In fact, I think he was coming around to my point of view.”

  “You’re suggesting Preston was beginning to agree with you?”

  “I don’t suggest,” said Clive. “I tell it like it is. John came to agree that for the last 30 years, in an effort to please our women, men have lost their mooring as men. He agreed that it was necessary to reestablish the masculine nature of men — even if that required that the gruff and violent nature in every man must be re-explored. These days, many men need to exaggerate these once primal and basic male behaviors to breathe life and restore equilibrium into their maleness.”

  “But there is no evidence in his writings, speeches or television appearances that he held such thoughts,” I said.

  “Either it happened to John or I’m a liar, and if you’re calling me a liar then we will need to settle that right here,” he said putting down his plates and unbuttoning his sleeves.

  Ordinarily I might laugh if a man that old challenged me to a fight, but I had a moment when I wasn't sure I could take him.

  “It would do my reputation a great deal of harm to get whooped by a man of your age,” I said, smiling.

  He smiled back.

  “I know it is hard to believe,” said Clive. “At first, I could hardly believe it. You must remember that John was a very slight man. But what makes a man has more to do with his internal fortitude and his quest for truth. I've come
to think that John had a lot of that. He was doing battle with his own world view, and that is always refreshing.”

  “Did he give you any insights into his personal life? In an email you sent to him, you mentioned a young woman who sounds very much like a woman I’m trying to locate. Her name is Erin Miller.”

  “I’m not clear on the woman’s last name, but I do remember an Erin he was rather taken by. He met her in an unusual manner.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, occasionally, we charter a bus to take us back to town for a tour of some of Pittsburgh's finer, and not so fine, exotic-dancing establishments. At one of these clubs, I believe it was the Tinny Town Lounge on Rt. 88 just outside Pittsburgh, he was really taken by one of the girls. She wasn't a dancer, though. She waited tables — probably made more money than the dancers, though. She was lovely.”

  “Did he tell you anything more about her?”

  “Well, this was some three years ago, and, as I recall, he did begin spending time with her. But around that time, he stopped coming around and we lost touch. Brenda owns the Tinny Town. Surely, she can provide you more insight.”

  “You’ve been extremely helpful, Mr. Clive.”

  “Please, call me Adam. Anything else I can do to help you?”

  “I just have one more question. Do you think Preston killed himself?”

  “Absolutely not. He was not the kind to give up. He was, in the end, a fine, determined man, and it is my great regret he is no longer among us.”

  I thanked Clive for his time, and began walking back to my truck. As I did, I heard men laughing as they sang: “I like to go swimming with bow-legged women, swimming between their legs…”

  Chapter #20

  Brenda Carbonara had owned and operated the Tinny Town Lounge for more than 45 years. She and her husband opened the place to launder the proceeds of a long defunct numbers-booking operation. When her husband died 20 years earlier, she took it over and has run it as a legitimate business since.