The Violet Crow

by Michael Sheldon

  To make matters worse, if you did it wrong—in other words, if your circle was going in the wrong direction—you could get trapped in the earth up to your waist and never get out, unless a Rabbi who knew how to do the Golem business correctly came along and got you out.

  All of this for a cheap date? It’d be easier and cheaper to fly out to Vegas. You’d have to be a complete shmegegge to try making a Golem with instructions like these. He checked the acknowledgements to see if they’d outsourced parts of the writing to Japan or Korea. Then he let the book drop to the floor and shuffled off to bed.

  Chapter 28

  He woke up to the sound of someone banging on his door. The noise woke Maggie too, and she started to bark.

  He looked through the peephole and saw a distorted angle on the Chief’s face. He was leering idiotically and appeared to be staggering. Bruno opened the door.

  “You just open the door like that, this time of night, out here in the Pines?”

  “I figured if it was bad guys, they wouldn’t bother knocking.”

  “What if it was something sinister? The Hookman or the Jersey Devil?”

  “I’d have been out of luck.”

  The Chief pulled his arm out from behind his back and shoved the neck of a champagne bottle in Bruno’s face. “The real stuff,” he mumbled. “Not California. Definitely not New Jersey. This is French Champagne.”

  “What for?”

  “We got to celebrate.”

  “Finding Gussie?”

  “Yeah. You did a good job. Pretty amazing, you ask me.” He popped the cork and poured the overflowing champagne into coffee mugs. He plopped himself into Bruno’s recliner and they clinked glasses. “Success,” sighed the Chief.

  Bruno frowned. “We still haven’t found the killers. We don’t know the motive. One of the victims is still unidentified. The whole town’s still at risk.”

  “Your glass is half empty,” said the Chief. “I’m going to fill it up again.” He poured a healthy slug into Bruno’s mug. “Mine’s half full, but I’m going to fill it up, too, just to be fair.” He poured until the wine overflowed and then he stated, “My cup runneth over.”

  He looked at Bruno expectantly.

  Bruno just sat there and patted Maggie nervously, until the Chief shot him another look, jutting his chin in Bruno’s direction, until he capitulated and recited, “Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life …”

  “Attaboy. You really believe it, don’t you? You’re not just saying it?”

  “Right.” Bruno fidgeted, wondering where all this was leading.

  “Good, ’cause I have total confidence that we’re going to find a way through this. Or around it. Whatever it takes.”

  “Around what?”

  The Chief went sober and deadly serious. “Mayor Dove just told me to terminate you, effective immediately.”

  The news blindsided Bruno. “He did what? Why?”

  “The publicity …”

  “You mean Peaches? That’s nothing but innuendo. A cliché. I’m the one who found the crime scene, so I must have done it. What’s my motive?”

  “I dunno. Make yourself look good? The point is, the Mayor doesn’t want to look bad. Ever. Even for a teeny-tiny moment. So he tries not to take risks.”

  “But he was the one who wanted you to hire me in the first place. At Peaches’ urging. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I agree.” The Chief raised his hand and let it fall in helpless frustration.

  “And the killers are still on the loose.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Bruno paced the floor. “I have to see my niece. If I can find out what she saw that day, it could be the key to the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, it could.” The Chief yawned.

  “What are you saying: You don’t care? You’re not interested?”

  “No. I care and I am interested.” The Chief straightened up and said in a low, sober voice, “I just can’t help you anymore. Your niece’s father, Bill McRae, works in my building. He’s already told me that he doesn’t want anyone to go anywhere near his daughter. And he said that applied to you in particular. He wanted to get a restraining order, but he can’t since you haven’t done anything or gone near her …”

  “Yet.”

  “Right. You haven’t gone near her yet. But since he does work in my building, and he has a … relationship … with the person I work for … he has a certain amount of influence. You see what I mean?” He spoke the word “influence” in such a peculiar way that Bruno had to ask him, “What exactly are you trying to say?”

  “I’m glad you asked that. Otherwise I wasn’t supposed to tell you. It’s like this. They want me to put a tail on you.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Yeah. It is kind of cool. It’ll be like having police protection. I just wanted you to know. I thought it over carefully and chose Biff to keep you company. You’ll like him more and more, once you get to know him. Really, he’s pretty simple to figure out.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Chapter 29

  Going to work always put Peaches on an emotional roller coaster: The Pest’s offices were right across the street from a Catholic high school; the sight of impressionable kids wearing uniforms, going in and out of a building with the words “Honor,” “Faith,” and “Loyalty” on the side, either made her blood boil or her heart sink. Sometimes both.

  Raised Catholic, Peaches had attended the local public high school and then a famous Catholic liberal arts college in the Midwest. So she knew what she was talking about. Basically, it all boiled down to birth control. Peaches needed it; the Pope said she couldn’t have it; ergo the Pope was a pig. In addition, she couldn’t stand the girls’ uniforms—white blouses and plaid skirts every day. End of story: the sight of a Catholic high school was scary and depressing.

  Fortunately, the paper had planted a stand of large trees right in front of the entrance to the building. Ostensibly, this was to keep irate readers and other whackjobs from finding the building, or if they did find it, possibly driving a truck or an SUV into the entrance lobby. But Peaches liked to think—and she knew other reporters and editors who felt the same way—that the trees were planted to minimize the irritation of having to look too much at the words “Honor,” “Faith,” and “Loyalty” on the way to work.

  In any case, her spirits always picked up as she passed through the grove of trees. And they got a big lift when she entered the building and was greeted by life-sized murals of heroically muscled printers and paperboys—getting the vital news to “the people.” Peaches was a born journalist and by the time she reached her desk she was generally feeling everything was right with the world again.

  Today, Peaches had been summoned to an emergency meeting of the editorial board. She’d been warned in advance that the paper had received an anonymous package containing what could potentially be evidence in a criminal matter. So she had dressed appropriately in a pair of Ralph Lauren jeans and a black cashmere pullover. She also took the precaution of bringing latex gloves and a respirator.

  Waiting for her in the conference room were the Pest’s Publisher, Dan Snarrel, Executive Editor Moe “the Mule” Lubbock, and Managing Editor Jeanine Calisto. All were wearing rubber gloves and seemed to be focused, rather glumly, on a crumpled mailing container on the conference table.

  As usual, Jeanine took charge. “Glad you’re here, P.C. Now we can get started.” She picked up the bag, gingerly, by the corners, adding, “I don’t think you’ll need the respirator. There doesn’t appear to be any powder or anything like that.”

  Peaches left the respirator in place.

  “The contents of the package include part of a garment that has been ripped or cut in half and a letter.” Moe Lubbock spread a large sheet of plastic onto the center of the table, and Jeanine carefully shook the two items out onto it. She produced tweezers from somewhere and arranged the garment and the letter side by side.


  “Wha’s it all about; wha’s the letter say?” Peaches demanded through her respirator. She didn’t wait for an answer. She got up from her chair and leaned over the table and read the letter herself. It only took her a moment and she snorted in disdain. “… is nothing. Jus’ a prank,” as she fell back into her seat.

  Then Dan Snarrel started as though he’d just woken from a nap. “Can you take off that damn mask and talk to me?” he shouted.

  Peaches obeyed the publisher, though she took her time about removing the mask.

  “This letter says there’s evidence of a crime,” roared the publisher. “How can you say it’s nothing? Jeanine thinks I need to get the attorney in here, but I don’t want to pay $250 an hour for his baloney unless I absolutely have to. So you need to explain this to me so I can understand it.”

  Snarrel was old, effectively deaf and habitually cranky, so Peaches didn’t take him or his manner too seriously. “I think this is a just a college prank,” she said, straightening her hair, which had come undone when she removed her respirator. “First of all it’s anonymous so that tells you something right away. Then what does she say?” Her desire to make her point overcame her fear of exposure; Peaches approached the table without her mask so she could read the letter out loud.

  “NATE LITTLEJOHN IS A HYPOCRITE AND A FAKE. STUDENTS IN DEVIANT BEHAVIOR ARE DOING SERIOUS AND IMPORTANT WORK. WE HAVE EVIDENCE THAT IMPLICATES CORPORATE MALE FACTORS IN RECENT CRIMES IN GARDENFIELD. LITTLEJOHN IS SUPPRESSING INFORMATION AND SEXUALLY ABUSING STUDENTS. YOU HAVE THE EVIDENCE IN YOUR HAND. PC CROMWELL SHOULD STOP COVERING LITTLEJOHN’S BUTT—OR IS HE FUCKING HER TOO?—AND WRITE THE TRUTH INSTEAD.”

  Peaches’ voice dripped with derision as she read the signature, “A FRIEND.” She pulled back from the table and added, “I’m glad to say I do not have the evidence in my hand. Read my lips: I did not have sex with Nate Littlejohn, not one single time. I hope that’s perfectly clear.”

  “We appreciate your candor,” said Jeanine, somewhat icily. “But I’m still not sure what to make of this …” She picked up the garment with the tweezers and turned it around in several directions to examine it. “It is stained, but who knows with what?”

  “Looks like Karl Marx boxers covered with pecker tracks,” the Mule observed sagely.

  “Not funny, Moe,” retorted Peaches, looking to Dan Snarrel for confirmation. The publisher appeared to be dozing—a good sign—so she continued. “The writer says this is evidence, but what does it prove? Even if the substance is … DNA, how did it get there?”

  “It might not be Littlejohn’s …” said Jeanine.

  “That’s easy enough to check,” argued Moe. “But it should be on her clothing, not his. This only proves that she had access to his shorts …”

  —“I don’t think it’s even a woman sending this,” said Peaches. “Women don’t think this way. We’re not obsessed with body parts and emissions. That’s how men think.”

  Moe tried to disagree. “She talks about ‘malefactors,’ and emphasizes the first four letters, MALE. It’s like she’s obsessed about being victimized.”

  “How insulting,” said Peaches, raising her voice. “And predictable. Resorting to stereotypes and blaming the victim. I expected more from you, Moe, but you’re just like all the others.”

  “So what do you think this is about?” quivered Moe, thoroughly whipped.

  “I think this is from some guy in Littlejohn’s class. He saw my article and that gave him the idea. I’m sure Littlejohn brags about what kind of boxers he wears; that’d be just like him. So the student got a pair online and then masturbated on them. A big joke. Ha-ha. If he can get us to publish the story, then he’s committed a deviant act and received public credit for it. He’ll be the star of his class and we’ll be the laughingstock.”

  Jeanine and Moe were nodding in agreement, when Dan Snarrel came back to life. “What’s it going to cost us?” he roared.

  “What do you mean?” asked Jeanine. “How much is it going to cost, if we’re wrong and we don’t turn this over to the police?”

  “There’s no risk,” said Peaches.

  “There’s always risk,” Snarrel shot back.

  “There’s no connection between the stained shorts and the kids who were killed in Gardenfield. It’s a logical fallacy. That’s why I think it’s a prank.”

  “She says it’s proof she’s telling the truth,” Snarrel persisted. “If she’s telling the truth about one thing, then she’s got credibility for the larger accusation. It makes sense to me. How much does a DNA test cost?”

  “I read that you can now get a person’s entire genome sequenced for 10 grand,” Peaches answered without hesitation.

  Jeanine wanted to ask why they’d need the entire genome, but she wasn’t sure and didn’t want to sound like an idiot.

  Moe had no such qualms. “You’d have to get Littlejohn to consent to provide a sample for matching. Either that, or P.C. would have to harvest some surreptitiously.”

  “Shut up, Moe. I can get you fired if you keep that up,” Peaches snapped.

  “On the other hand, if we turn this over to the police,” Moe shot back, “we have a great story. Illicit sex. Recriminations. A new angle on the Quaker Killer. We could string it along for weeks. It’d sell papers.”

  “The advertisers might not like it,” said Snarrel.

  “That’s true.”

  “And we’d have to get the damn lawyers involved, if we’re treating it like evidence … how much did you say for the DNA test?”

  “Ten thousand.”

  “That sound right to you Jeanine?”

  “’Bout right, I guess. I can check on it.”

  “Let’s not waste any more time on it. This is a college prank. An anonymous note with a foul enclosure. Toss the whole thing and get back to work.”

  Chapter 30

  Quentin Richards hadn’t felt so depressed since his time in the military. Now there had been two casualties associated with the school. Why was this happening? Who was behind it?

  He walked out of his office on the ground floor of the main building, telling his secretary he was just stepping out for air. The school grounds were peaceful. It was nearing the end of the day. All of the children were inside, in their classrooms, awaiting dismissal.

  Master Quentin walked around back toward the playground. Then he strode willfully into the cemetery where the lofty sycamores were just leafing out. In the children’s butterfly garden, new blooms would soon be attracting a variety of insects—hungry for nectar, spreading pollen around. All was still and calm. He looked around from the back of the school, across the play field, toward the meeting house and back to where he stood in the cemetery. Everything was right. Everything in its place. Except for the presence of the security guards in their black commando sweaters and berets, he could have pretended that all was well, nothing out of the ordinary at Gardenfield Friends.

  But there was no escaping the fact: the guards were there—Quentin himself had asked for them the day following Gussie’s disappearance—and all was not well. He put his hand to his collar. Quentin realized he was feeling flushed and anxious. His skin was breaking out in sweat, and cold chills pulsed up and down his frame.

  He mopped his face with a linen handkerchief and carefully replaced it in his back pocket. Then he walked quickly back to his office, clutching his suit jacket closed against the chill. He picked up the phone, and angrily punched the keys for the number he’d scrawled on his blotter.

  “Nyew gawden buyo-sci-ences. Can you hold please?”

  Master Quentin held, dabbing at drops of sweat as he waited.

  “How can I direct your cawl?”

  “I need to speak with Dr. Fischer,” replied Quentin, trying hard not to take it out on the receptionist.

  “Cyanni tell him who’s calling?”

  “This is Quentin Richards from Gardenfield Friends School. He’ll know what it’s about.”

  “Hold please.”


  The sound of children exploding from the building after six hours of compression greeted his ear. They were shouting, cheering, raving. Not a care in the world, in spite of everything.

  Suddenly he realized he was listening to Fischer’s recorded voice. She’d dumped him into voice mail. OK. He’d talk to the machine. “Dr. Fischer, Quentin Richards here. I appreciate the use of your security people, but I have to say their uniforms are totally inappropriate for the school grounds. Can you please have them wear ordinary clothes while they’re here? I …” He nearly added a more personal message, then thought better of it.

  He stepped out onto the front porch to watch the children leave the schoolyard. Most were getting on the bus. They weren’t letting kids walk home or ride bikes anymore, so that meant more parents had to pick up. The street was a hive of activity.

  Alison and Icky walked by on the opposite side of Garden Avenue. They were holding hands. They released their grip long enough to wave to Master Quentin. He acknowledged them only with the slightest dip of his chin. He glanced nervously toward the commando from NewGarden, to see if he noticed. Some instinct told him that the less these people knew, the better. Now Alison and Icky were changing direction. They were crossing the street to approach the school. Frantic, Master Quentin ordered them away with a surreptitious shake of the head. It was definitely not the right time for a social call.

  One of the last mothers to pick up her child that day was Judy Cohen. She was driving a Lexus hybrid SUV and was running late—mostly because of the baby. Mimi scrambled into the car without greeting her mother. She buckled herself into the seat next to her sister’s rear-facing crashproof contraption and announced, “I’m hungry. Let’s get Chinese food.”

  Chapter 31

  Bruno hadn’t felt so depressed since his marriage broke up. Watching Judy Cohen run her errands brought back a flood of memories. The good ones made him sad because they were gone forever. The first six years with Sharon—Judy’s baby sister—had been OK, despite some of the obvious negatives, such as the unremitting hostility from his in-laws. He wasn’t Jewish enough for Mr. and Mrs. Cohen. Judy saw him as a shlimazl. And her husband, Bill McRae, William R. McRae, Attorney at Law, always hated his guts, pure and simple. Why Sharon’s parents tolerated McRae, who was not just a goy, but a dyed-in-the-wool shaygetz—a non-Jewish husband, and an arrogant shmuck to boot—while they were bothered by his weakness for ham and cheese sandwiches, was something Bruno never understood.