She swung the door open and he stepped into the vestibule. He took off his cap. “I want to see Paul Mulgrave. Is he in?”
“No, he’s not.”
“Did he leave early? Not that I blame him—this storm’s getting worse by the minute.”
“Mr. Mulgrave didn’t come in today. We haven’t heard from him.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Yes, very. He always comes here first thing, no matter what. When we didn’t hear we thought he might be sick, so we called his home. But there was no answer.”
“May I use your phone? I’ll try to reach him.”
She glanced with distaste at the melted snow dripping from his cap and his jacket, but then said, “Very well. If you’ll follow me, please.”
She led him to a cubbyhole office under the stairs. There was a telephone on the desk, and she gave him Mulgrave’s number. He dialed it, and stood there listening to it ring. The librarian stayed in the doorway, watching him. After a dozen rings and no answer, he put the phone back onto its cradle.
He looked at the old woman. “Did he have an appointment or anything you can think of that might have detained him?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you know where he keeps the keys to the museum? There’s something I need to see over there.”
She stiffened at the question. “I have no idea, and I wouldn’t give them to you if I did. That’s Mr. Mulgrave’s business.”
The fact that Jud was a cop, and the chief of the Braddock force at that, didn’t seem to go very far with her. But it wasn’t worth an argument. He’d get the keys when he located Mulgrave. “Can you suggest anyplace he might be?”
“No. And now if you don’t mind, I want to lock up and go home. The other librarian left just before you came, and I’m alone. I’m afraid if I don’t go soon I could be stuck here.”
“You have snow tires on your car?”
“I don’t have a car.”
“You mean you’re going to walk—in this?”
“That’s correct, officer. I live only a mile from here, and I walk it every day, rain or shine.”
“Not today, you won’t. Get your coat and I’ll drop you off.”
“Young man, I’m quite capable—”
“Get your coat, ma’am. Now.”
She did as she was told, and a few minutes later Jud deposited her in front of a tiny frame house.
He waited until she went inside and turned the lights on before he pulled away.
As he did the radio crackled, and Jud heard Tony Stanis calling him. He reached under the dash and picked the mike off its hook. “MacElroy.”
“Chief, Inspector Pearson wants you to come to the stationhouse right away. And there’s an urgent message here for you from the mayor.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know. It’s in a sealed envelope. But I was told to contact you and say it was important that you get it as soon as possible.”
Jud broke off the call and swung the Plymouth into a U-turn. He had a feeling there was another storm on its way and that this one would be a lot tougher than a blizzard.
5
As he approached police headquarters, Jud saw that the word was out. Among the cars parked in front of the town hall were several vans with TV station call letters painted on them. Once again they had to have set speed records to get here from Albany or Syracuse or wherever, but any break in this case would draw them like flies. They’d be expecting to hear that Buddy Harper had been apprehended, as Pearson had all but promised the kid soon would be. What they’d hear instead would be a bombshell.
Jud knew how much the media loved a murder case—especially one with bizarre overtones—and from the start the legend of the headsman had been a bonanza for them. Now this second ax killing would be a lot more than conjecture about some dusty ghost story in a small town. And it wouldn’t be merely regional news, either.
He parked the Plymouth in the lot behind the building then trudged through the drifting snow to the back door of the stationhouse. As soon as he walked in, a swarm of reporters descended on him, poking microphones into his face, shouting questions, firing flash cameras. He pushed through them, heading for his office.
Before he got there Chester Pearson grabbed his arm. “Been waiting for you. I promised these people a press conference, and I wanted you to be here for it.”
He wanted to protest, but he never got the chance. He and Pearson became surrounded by reporters and cameramen, and it took several minutes before the inspector could quiet them down enough to make a statement.
“A couple of hours ago,” Pearson told them, “the young man we’ve been looking for was found. At least, part of him was. Buddy Harper was decapitated, and we have recovered his head.”
That triggered an uproar, and again Pearson had to wait for the crowd to let him continue. “The severed head was sent here, to Chief MacElroy. Maybe he can tell you why it was sent to him.”
For the second time that day, Jud felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He stood there like a fool as the wave of shouted questions washed over him, not knowing how he was going to handle this, his anger surging over the way he’d been set up. Pearson had sidestepped the issue of why the investigation had focused on the Harper boy as the killer of Marcy Dickens and was dumping the responsibility for this new development onto Jud.
“Why you, Chief?”
“What did you know about this kid?”
“Where’s the rest of the body?”
“What haven’t you told us about Harper and the Dickens girl?”
Jud fumbled his way through it, trying to answer above the noise, mouthing platitudes that made him sound as silly as he felt. “We have no information at this time.” And “We don’t know why it was sent here.” And “We have no further leads at present.” Until he wished he could find a hole and crawl into it.
Finally he held up his hands and said, “That’s all we can say until we get reports from the lab.” He turned and shoved his way through the mob, making his way down the hall toward his office. When he got there he went inside and shut the door behind him.
The paper and the cardboard box had been removed, presumably by the state police investigators. In the center of his desk there was now an envelope with his name on it. That had to be the message Stanis had told him about. He tore it open and withdrew a sheet of stationery with an Office of the Mayor letterhead. He scanned the contents.
A meeting of the Braddock Town Council had been scheduled for five o’clock that afternoon, it said. It was mandatory that Chief MacElroy attend.
His watch told him that was ten minutes from now. He wasn’t sure what was on the agenda, but he knew that whatever it was, from his standpoint it wouldn’t be good.
6
The fact that Sally was a woman meant nothing. Reporters stepped on her feet and elbowed her out of their way in their efforts to get closer to the inspector and the chief of police. Her reaction was to stomp, shove and elbow back.
Taking notes would be impossible; she’d just have to do the best she could to remember what was being said—or shouted—in this melee. Compared to this one, the earlier press conferences had been love-ins.
Which was understandable. The announcement that Buddy Harper’s head had been found was a tremendous shock. It meant that all the smug state police assumptions had been total nonsense. Not only had Harper not been Marcy Dickens’ murderer, but he had become a victim himself. And who—or what—had killed him? No wonder the inspector seemed shaken. After only a few terse words, just enough to state what had happened, he’d turned the floor over to Jud.
As much as she wanted this story, she felt pity as she watched Jud stand there and take it. The reporters were howling for blood, demanding to know why the Harper kid’s head had been sent to the chief of police and why he hadn’t leveled with them about what was really going on.
And he had no answers for them. At least none that were acceptable. He s
imply mumbled a bunch of cliches that added up to an admission that the police didn’t know what to do next. It was awful.
But it was also annoying. Ethics and regulations were all wonderful, but damn it, this was a tough, competitive world. He could at least have given her a hint as to what was happening. The phone call from him earlier today—had he already received that hideous package?
Probably he had. Shit.
As if she hadn’t stuck her neck out for him, spending hours pulling those old photos out of the files, and then letting him borrow them. Was this all the thanks she’d get?
She’d also strained her relationship with Maxwell. The old man had to be getting senile. First he’d fallen all over himself in praising her work on this story, including her initiative in digging up the angle of the Donovan murder. But then when he’d discovered her returning the photos he’d had a fit.
Of course, she hadn’t told him why she’d slipped them out. If she had, he probably would have fired her on the spot, judging from his frenzied reaction when he saw her with them.
But what was the big deal anyway?
The press conference was on the edge of chaos. Two guys with TV camcorders were trying to outmaneuver each other and looked as if they were about to come to blows. The noise level was even higher, and Jud was trying to get the reporters to shut up.
She realized that from here on out this event would be little more than an exercise in futility. Beyond learning that Buddy Harper had been decapitated and that his severed head had been sent to the police, she’d get nothing more of value.
But what a hell of a development that was. Not only would the town of Braddock and every city in the area go crazy; the story of the headsman would be national news. She knew at once that the New York Times and the Post and Time, Newsweek and U.S. News would all send crews up here, as would the television networks.
So what was there to gain by staying here and watching these guys muscle each other? She’d do better to go back to her desk as fast as she could and bang out the story. Before the others got the same idea.
Getting out of here would certainly be easier than coming in had been. She shoved her way through the crowd and left the stationhouse via the back door.
Outside, snow was continuing to fall with the persistence that presaged a major storm. She turned up the collar of her trenchcoat and tugged her hat down, walking as quickly as she could through the cushion of white. Her boots were crunching in the stuff, and the wind-whipped flakes stung her face and her eyelids. She was grateful that the offices of the Express were only a short distance away.
7
The conference room in which the Town Council meetings were held was on the second floor of the city hall. When Jud went up the stairs he was trailed by a couple of reporters who had hung around, apparently hoping to glean something more on the story of Buddy Harper’s murder. He ignored their yapping, going through the paneled doors and shutting them behind him.
This was an ornate room, with high ceilings and tall windows flanked by heavy, dark blue drapes. Portraits of past city officials looked down from the paneled walls, and an American flag hung from a pole at the far end. Illumination was provided by an elaborate brass chandelier that had originally supported gaslamps when the building was constructed over a century ago.
In the center of the room and running most of its length was an ancient, intricately carved mahogany table. Seated around it and eyeing him coldly were the members of the Braddock Town Council.
Sam Melcher was at the head of the table. As mayor, he was automatically chairman of this group. On either side sat three men: to the left Ed Dickens, Charley Boggs and Ray Maxwell; to the right Loring Campbell, Bill Swanson and Peter Harper. The mayor indicated the chair at the foot of the table. “Sit down, Chief.”
Jud did, noting that there was none of the cozy informality he’d observed the last time he’d been together with some of them, when he’d been invited to Melcher’s home for a drink. The hostility was so thick now he could almost reach out and touch it. Seeing Peter Harper here was startling; he would have expected Harper to be at home after learning the devastating news of his son’s death. Instead here he sat, staring at Jud as balefully as the rest of them.
“The reason for this meeting,” Melcher began, “is to question you about recent events in this horrible murder case. The first thing we want to know is—” he shot a glance at Harper “—why that, uh, package was sent to you.”
Jud had heard that on several other occasions today; this time he was ready for it. His manner was calm. “I don’t know. It’s reasonable to assume the killer sent it, I suppose. Maybe he was also sending a message to the police. Killers have been known to do things like that, especially psychopaths, as this one has to be.”
“Has to be?” Swanson was peering at him. “What proof do you have of that?”
“I don’t have any proof,” Jud said. “But his actions would certainly convince me. No sane person kills kids with an ax.”
Boggs spoke up. “So let’s say the killer sent the package. He didn’t just send it to the police. He sent it to you.”
“As chief, I represent the police force,” Jud said. “Maybe that was why.”
“Maybe,” Ed Dickens said, “it was you he was sending a message to.”
“I don’t know what his motives were,” Jud said. “And I don’t think anyone else does, either. Except the killer himself.”
Swanson leaned forward, his heavy hands curled on the table in front of him. “Chief, I’d be interested in hearing what your role in this investigation has been up to now.”
That caught him off balance. “My role? I’ve been doing what I can to help. Inspector Pearson is in charge, as you know.”
Swanson looked at Melcher. The mayor said to Jud, “We had a talk with the inspector after this latest development. I’m going to be blunt with you, because we want all the cards out on the table. Inspector Pearson told us you’ve been very uncooperative throughout the entire investigation.”
Despite his resolve, Jud felt a surge of anger. “I don’t know how he could say that.”
“Neither do we,” Swanson said. “Unless it’s true.”
“Have you been reporting to him?” Melcher asked.
Jud shifted in his chair. “Not on every detail, I suppose.”
For the first time since the meeting had started, Peter Harper spoke. “The morning you came out to our home,” he said, “after Buddy disappeared. You didn’t report to Inspector Pearson then. You just came out without telling him anything about it. When he got to the house he was obviously angry with you for not informing him of what was going on. After you left, he told us he was disturbed by your failure to cooperate.”
Loring Campbell had also been silent up to now, holding Jud in a cold stare. He said, “We get the impression you’ve been poking into a lot of people’s private business under the guise of working on this investigation. Yet Inspector Pearson didn’t know anything about that, either.”
“I’ve been trying to develop leads,” Jud said. It sounded weak even to him. He felt foolish, mumbling half-baked excuses. But what could he say? The last thing he’d want to do would be to let on why he’d been asking questions and to reveal what answers he’d turned up—especially to this group. Among the men who were grilling him now were several he could definitely link to Janet Donovan. Men who’d slept with her. Men who might have a motive for killing her.
“Developing leads is one thing,” Campbell said. “Snooping around in citizens’ private lives is something else.”
“Loring’s right,” Melcher said. “A chief of police has a very important position in our community. A sensitive position. One of his responsibilities is to maintain law and order, of course. But another is to see that high standards are maintained. To see that citizens’ rights are protected, not violated.”
Ray Maxwell cleared his throat. “Frankly, I was astounded by what I’ve been hearing. Not just today’s news, but other th
ings that have come to light recently. It seems you’ve been using your position—and this case—to pry into matters that have nothing to do with police business.”
“Just what is it you’re looking for?” Melcher asked. “I’d like to know what it is you’re after, and why you think you have a right to be carrying on the way you have.”
Jud looked at the faces of the seven men. Each of them was glaring at him with obvious resentment and barely controlled anger. He felt as if he were being pilloried. And yet there was no way he could defend himself without revealing information he wouldn’t want any of them to have.
Despite the tension, he kept his voice steady. “I’ve been looking at various angles of the case, seeing if I couldn’t find something that would be useful.”
Ed Dickens spoke again, his voice harsh. “When my daughter died, it was clear that outside help was needed. That’s why the state police were called in. Could it be you were so miffed when they were that you started working at cross-purposes? That you were deliberately hindering them?”
“Or did you see a way to use the case as a cover,” Campbell added, “for whatever your real motives were?”
This was too much to take. Jud leaned forward. “That’s goddamn ridiculous. I’ve been doing everything I can to help solve this thing, and that’s been my only interest right from the beginning.”
“Maybe,” Melcher said. “And maybe not. Whichever way we look at it, you’ve contributed nothing while you’ve gotten a lot of people very upset. The bottom line is, you’ve betrayed our trust in you. It’s my duty to inform you that the Town Council is giving you a vote of no confidence.”
“A unanimous vote,” Campbell added. There was a satisfied smirk on his face. Jud wished he could rip it off.
“We’re putting you on notice as of now,” Melcher went on. “The next step will be a formal hearing to determine whether you should be dismissed.”
“The thing you don’t seem to understand,” Boggs said, “Is that we’re in a crisis situation here. The children of two of our leading citizens, both members of this council, have been murdered in their homes. People are in a panic, and you can hardly blame them.”
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