Harlot's Moon

by Edward Gorman

  "I don't, either."

  "But I certainly don't think the Monsignor killed him, either," he said. "In case that's what you're thinking."

  "Right now, I don't know what I'm thinking, Father. I really don't."

  Even with the profile I'd created, that was true. There were people the profile fitted; there were people it didn't fit. But it wasn't complete, because my information wasn't complete.

  Like flying in fog. A small plane, you fly by sight, just like you drive a car, and you can't fly it in fog. A bigger plane, you might fly blind, fly by instruments. But if you were in the fog, even if you did have instruments, if you didn't have the right coordinates you might come down dead.

  I had the instruments. I'd honed them over thirteen years. But I didn't have all the coordinates.

  We said goodbye, and I walked back to my car.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Just as I was starting to slide into my car, I heard somebody call my name. I looked over and saw Bernice walking towards me, waving.

  This morning she wore a pink blouse, royal-blue cardigan sweater, and royal-blue slacks. She also wore large sunglasses which gave her a slightly sexual edge she didn't usually have.

  "Do you think he did it?" she said breathlessly.

  "Bob Wilson, you mean?"

  She nodded.

  "I don't think so."

  "Then why did the police bring him in for questioning?"

  "They probably know some things we don't. They certainly wouldn't bring him in on a whim."

  "He's an important man."

  "Exactly." Then I said, "Say, I was going to ask you to do me a favor."

  "Be glad to." She smiled. "Nice-looking young man like you."

  "I left all my quarters at home. Afraid I don't have anything to tip you with."

  "Here I go flattering you, and all you can talk about is tipping me."

  I leaned into my car and picked up a manila envelope into which I'd slipped copies of all the newspaper clippings.

  "I wondered if you'd check these for me," I said.

  "Check them how?"

  "Can you get into Father Daly's office?"

  "I suppose so."

  "I've been trying to figure out why he kept these clippings. You know about them?"

  She nodded. "I heard he kept some clippings about people getting killed. Father Ryan and the Monsignor were talking about them. But I haven't seen them. Is that what these are?"

  "Yes. And I started wondering if he knew the victims more than casually. I'd like to see if he knew them through his counseling."

  Father Ryan had told me he didn't. But Father Ryan fit the profile. So he might not have been telling the truth.

  She took the envelope. "I may not be able to get to it until later today, maybe not until this evening. Today is errand day at the rectory you see. I'm usually gone most of the day."

  "Fine. My number's on the envelope there. Just call me when you find out. I'd really appreciate it. Oh, and don't mention it to Father Ryan. I don't want to worry him anymore."

  She nodded.

  We stood in the sunshine. Between church and rectory, the pigeons were still cooing. The school kids were back inside, having taken their laughter with them.

  "It's interesting to watch a detective's mind at work," she said. "So if he was seeing these people professionally, and later on they were murdered, what do you think it could mean?"

  "It could mean just about anything — or nothing."

  "It is sort of funny, though, isn't it, the way he kept these clippings?"

  "Yeah, it is."

  "But there was always that part of him."

  "What part of him?"

  "You know how, with some people, you can kind of get to know them real easy?"

  I nodded.

  "You never had that feeling with Father Daly. In fact, I always had the opposite feeling. I was never sure how he was going to react to things. He was very mysterious sometimes, and a little scary."

  "Did you ever see him lose his temper?"

  She waggled a finger at me. "You're thinking what I'm thinking, aren't you?"

  "And what would that be, Bernice?"

  "That maybe Father Daly killed these people. In the clippings, I mean."

  "I didn't say that."

  "No, but you were thinking it."

  "Why would he kill them?" I said.

  "Oh, no. You're the detective. You tell me."

  "Well, I could take some guesses."

  But she was too excited to be quiet. "First of all, were they all women?"

  "No."

  "Did the men have wives? I mean, were they all married, the dead men?"

  "Yes."

  "So there were women involved in all of the murders. And maybe they were all attractive women."

  "Maybe."

  "Well, let's say they were."

  "All right," I said. "They were all attractive women."

  "What if he forced himself on them?"

  "What if he did? Why wouldn't they just go to the police?"

  "Maybe they'd told him secrets — you know, things you'd tell an analyst. Maybe they were afraid he'd tell everybody what they'd told him. Am I getting anywhere?"

  I laughed. "You're pretty good at this."

  "You're just saying that."

  "No, you've got a very active imagination, and you're able to articulate your theories. That's what happens in group sessions at the FBI."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "I can't wait to tell my grandchildren," she said.

  "There's just one problem, Bernice."

  "Problem?"

  "If Father Daly did do what you said, who killed him?"

  "You know, that's a very good point."

  "If you figure it out, let me know."

  "I guess that's where my theory falls down, huh, Robert?"

  "Just keep working on it."

  She checked her watch. "I've really got to run. This has been a lot of fun." She waved the manila envelope at me, and then her smile died. "If it just wasn't real. I'll be back to you sometime today."

  "Thanks. By the way, did you know Michael Grady?"

  "The one that got drowned?"

  "Right."

  "His funeral was here." She looked disapproving. "But he never could find time for the Church while he was alive."

  Twenty minutes later, I was pulling into a parking stall at the law firm.

  "You've got somebody waiting for you in your office," the receptionist said.

  "Oh?"

  She leaned forward so she could whisper. "Beverly Wright."

  "Oh, great."

  Today Beverly wore a blue jumper with a white linen blouse. She looked young and fresh and maternal, the sort of pretty woman you see pushing a stroller in the park on sunny days.

  "How are you today, Beverly?" I said, walking into the office.

  "I'm not a whore."

  "I know you're not."

  "But that's what the county attorney's going to say about me, isn't it?"

  Should I lie? Try to make things seem better than they were? "Yeah, that's probably what he's going to say."

  "He wants to run for Governor in the primary. The county attorney, I mean."

  "That's what I hear."

  "So getting a guilty verdict would really make him look good, wouldn't it?"

  "Aaron's a wealthy and important man."

  "That's another thing."

  "What is?"

  "Don't juries like to convict wealthy, important men?"

  "A lot of the time they do."

  "They'll really want to nail Aaron, won't they? I can see Aaron in court. He's got a bad temper and lot of people think he's pretty arrogant."

  "Aaron — arrogant?"

  She matched my smile. "But he can also be a very decent, tender man. He really can. He didn't work very hard at his marriage the last few years but his wife didn't, either. There's plenty of blame to go around."

  I nodded as
I looked through my phone messages. Felice had called three times. I wondered if something was wrong.

  "Beverly?"

  "Yes?"

  "I think we had this same conversation a few days ago, didn't we? You not being able to make up your mind?"

  She chose to disregard my words.

  "One thing his wife hated was that he'd never give her his undivided attention," Beverly said. "You know, like he'd read his phone messages while she was talking to him?"

  "Guilty as charged," I said, and sat up straight in my chair.

  "You were saying?"

  "I'm not a whore is what I was saying. But by the time the county attorney gets finished with me, that's how I'll come off."

  "Then you're not going to testify?"

  "I talked to my son."

  "And what'd he say?"

  "He gave me the same speech about right and wrong that I always give him."

  "So you are going to do it?"

  She lifted narrow shoulders in a weary shrug. "One minute I'm going to testify, the next minute I'm not going to testify."

  "I get like that."

  "Indecisive?"

  "Sure."

  "An ex-FBI man?"

  "Why shouldn't an ex-FBI man be just as indecisive as everybody else on the planet?"

  "Well, I guess you've got a point there."

  "In fact, I knew a lot of really indecisive people when I was in the Bureau."

  "That really surprises me."

  "So what I'm saying," I said, "is that you shouldn't feel bad about being indecisive."

  "You're really a nice guy, you know that?"

  "It's not easy, what we're asking you to do."

  "You'd like me to do it, wouldn't you?"

  "Sure I would," I said. "But I'm not the one who has to sit in that witness chair in front of that whole courtroom of people."

  "I just thought of something."

  "What?"

  "Is this reverse psychology?"

  "I don't think so," I said.

  She shrugged again. "God, I hate how cynical I am. You're a nice guy. Why can't I just accept that?"

  "You want some coffee?"

  "No, thanks. I've gotta go to pick up my son at baseball practice." Then: "Without me, they're probably going to nail him, aren't they?"

  "Even with you, they might nail him."

  "You mean, even if I'd do it, it still might not help Aaron?"

  "Uh-huh. Maybe the county attorney'll be able to convince the jury that you're lying to protect Aaron."

  "But I'm not lying."

  "I know you're not lying. But will the jury know that?"

  "God, this is worse than it's ever been. Even if I help him, I may not help him is what you're saying?"

  "It's a possibility," I said.

  "God," she said. Then: "Are you sure this isn't reverse psychology?"

  "If it is, it's so subtle that even I'm not aware of it." Then: "Look. Why don't you think it over some more? You're not quite sure and we've still got twenty-four hours before we have to hand in our final list of witnesses."

  "It could ruin my life," she said.

  "I know."

  "Everywhere I go, people will recognize me."

  "Possibly."

  "And they'll think of me as a whore. That's the first thing that'll come to their minds. "There's that woman who testified for that rich guy she was having an affair with. She's a whore." Then: "You know the funny thing?"

  What?"

  "I came here to tell you I was going to do it. But now I'm not sure."

  "You weren't ready."

  "I wasn't?"

  "Huh-uh. If you were really ready, you'd think of only one thing."

  "I would?"

  "Yes. What your son said. The difference between right and wrong. You'd be willing to tell the truth."

  "Oh God, now I feel like a real shit."

  "You're not a shit at all. You're afraid and you'd be crazy not to be."

  "But if I really cared about right and wrong, about—"

  "Telling the truth—"

  "—go ahead and agree to testify"

  "Oh, shit," she said.

  "What?"

  "You know what I'm going to do?"

  "What're you going to do?"

  "I'm going to testify"

  "Great. I really appreciate this and so will everybody else involved in the case."

  "But they are going to call me a whore, aren't they?" she said, shaking her head miserably. "They are going to call me a whore, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, I'll just have to live with it."

  Then she was gone. Out the door of my office.

  I was just starting to turn back to my desk, when she peeked in again and said, "I'm sorry. I just can't do it. I really can't."

  Then she was gone. For good.

  A few hours later, on my way home, I decided to pick up the crosstown and visit the Wilsons.

  The sweeping drive up the side of the hill was dark by now, the trees lining the drive filling with the cries of birds settling in for the night. For a moment, caught between opposing stands of trees, I felt blissfully alone. No more witnesses I had to talk into things. No more stepfathers to worry about. No more priests dead, or puzzling murders.

  The house was dark.

  No cars on the drive or near the garbage.

  No sounds except the vague throb of the house itself, electricity and plumbing.

  I was just about to walk up to the front door when I noticed the dark drops on the sidewalk.

  Somebody had spilled something.

  I knelt down, daubed a finger to one of the drops. Still warm, whatever it was.

  I took out a penlight and shone it on my daubed finger. Red. Blood.

  I backtracked, bent old-man over so that my penlight could pick out the drops. A raccoon squatted next to a carefully manicured flower bed, watching me.

  The blood drops led all the way to the garage.

  I followed them to the second door in the middle. I swung the door up and walked inside.

  The blood was heavier here, splotches of it now.

  Cars were on either side of me. The center stall was empty.

  I felt a tightness in my chest and a coldness in my belly.

  Somebody had been injured, maybe even killed; and then taken away.

  I thought about what Gilhooley had told me, Ellie Wilson liquidating all her assets over the past months.

  Had she killed her husband, or had he killed her?

  Or was there a third person here — the killer — who had forced them into the car?

  There were too many possibilities.

  Hearing something, I froze.

  Clicked off my penlight.

  Darkness. Sweaty darkness. Cold sweat.

  Heart hammering. Mouth dry. A slight tic in my left eye.

  Listening.

  A clicking noise. And then I smiled, seeing the collie walking across the width of the drive, his golden and white fur pure in the moonlight. The clicking had been his nails on the concrete.

  The collie went on into the night, and I followed the blood back to the front door. I shone my light on the door. Found a smudge of blood on the golden door knob. Took out my handkerchief and tried to turn the knob. Locked.

  I went back to my car and called the police on my cellular phone. Asked for Detective Holloway.

  "She's gone for the day," a detective said.

  "I'd like to have her home number if I could."

  "Sorry"

  I explained who I was, and he said, "I can ask her to call you."

  I left my cell-phone number. Less than a minute later, she called me back "Who is this?" She sounded annoyed.

  "This is Payne," I said. "Something's going on."

  "Where are you?"

  I told her where. And I told her what I'd found.

  "I'll call the station. And keep an ear out. What's your phone number again?"

  I gave her the cell phone and my home ph
one.

  "You sound better tonight."

  "Yeah, I haven't sneezed practically all day."

  "Maybe it's over."

  "Yeah." Then, "Payne?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Bob Wilson's starting to look more and more like our boy," she said.

  "Yeah," I said, "that's kind of what I was thinking. At least, it would be if I could have thought of any reason for him to kill Tawanna Jackson and Ronald Swanson."

  "Yeah, but you don't know there's a connection. You just think there is."

  "And Michael Grady."

  "What are you talking about? That was an accidental drowning. I caught the squeal."

  "Maybe it was."

  "Hell, it was. So imagine, Ellie and the priest making out, Bob gets jealous, he kills the priest. And then tonight he and his wife have some kind of confrontation."

  "Yeah."

  "Happens all the time, Payne."

  "Yeah, it does."

  Maybe she was right.

  "I'll call you if somebody finds them, all right?"

  "Great. I appreciate it."

  Then she sneezed.

  I cradled the phone, put the car in gear, and was just ready to start down the drive, when I heard the scream. I couldn't tell which direction it came from. Somewhere in the woods that sloped down the western side of the large hill.

  The scream came again.

  I dug my Luger and my flashlight out of the glove compartment, and got out of the car. I also grabbed the cell phone.

  I jogged over to the head of the woods and listened. No more screams. No sounds except natural ones.

  I clicked on my flashlight and started into the woods. This was an alien nocturnal world, alive with animals who watched me but whom I couldn't see, only sense. I followed a narrow path that wound downhill. I ducked innumerable branches, tripped over a few buried rocks, and twice took dead-end offshoots of the trail. The trees were only a few weeks into spring bloom but they were leafy enough to make seeing past them impossible. The loam smelled rich and heady.

  The trail grew narrower and narrower as I reached the jack pines whose boughs slapped me eagerly. The Brothers Grimm wrote beautifully of dim dark woods. They would have loved this stretch of forest.

  A sound. Faint. Uncertain.

  I stopped. Cold sweat was now hot sweat. I was out of breath.

  The sound again. Then I recognized it: a woman crying.

  The path wound eastward now, and then dipped sharply. I saw the narrow creek bed below, and then I angled my flashlight to the left and I saw the woman lying next to the creek bed. Dead pieces of wood and dried leaves crackled as I walked, my light playing on branches and boughs impossibly vivid against the surrounding darkness.