by Val Bruech
Hmm. I probably shouldn’t tell him it’s been the best evening of my last decade. Sex had been an occasional by-product of several relationships in the past, but those experiences were like a quiet night at home watching TV compared to the rock concert experience with Al.
“It’s been fun,” I concurred. “Guess what? I just remembered I need your help with something.”
“The sun, the moon, the stars,” he said grandly.
“There was an old man at Sam’s graveside service.” I rolled over and planted my chin on his chest. “Shabbily dressed black fellow. I got his license plate number and I was wondering if you could run his registration.”
He contemplated me with one eye closed, like he was sighting down the barrel of a gun.
“Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
“I thought maybe you needed help with putting in a screen or fixing a computer. Silly me,” he said, reaching for his jeans.
I got up and padded to the kitchen, found a piece of paper and wrote down the Nova’s number. When I came back into the great room, Al was pulling on his tee shirt.
“Guess I ruined that mood.”
“It’s okay. I gotta get going,” he said shortly.
I gave him the paper. He glanced at it and stuck it in his pocket.
“One last thing. Do you have access to gun registration records?”
“That depends. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know if Eric Benton ever registered a handgun, specifically a twenty-two.”
“Still shaking his tree, huh?” A moment’s silence. “There was no gun involved in Sam’s death. We had the doc specifically check, because when the head gets as…bad as that, it can be a cover-up for another cause of death. The autopsy is definitive: blunt trauma to the head, no evidence of gunshot.” He combed his fingers through the bristle on his scalp. “What are you driving at?”
“Well, Benton and I had a chat. He wasn’t very enamored of me. I hope he won’t try anything, but I wonder if he has the means.”
“Benton? What kind of a chat?” he demanded.
I told him in non-specific terms how the doctor had resisted my efforts to rattle him.
“What if I check and he’s registered a three-fifty-seven? Will that put your mind at ease?”
“I’ll have to get a bigger one.”
“And learn how to use it.”
“I played laser tag once,” I said brightly.
Al’s face turned hard and his lips formed a narrow line. “When you were in the hospital, I made you an offer. You don’t seem at all interested, so I have no obligation here. You’re good at finding things out—you did a great job on the Hart kid. You can figure out the rest of this stuff.” He pulled on his socks and shoes.
“Al, I’m sorry. Sometimes I just get carried away.” I picked up his belt and held it out to him. “I’m not used to asking permission.”
When he looked up, his eyes were flat. “What now?”
I wrapped myself in a throw blanket. “I sit tight and wait for you to get back to me on the license plate and Benton.”
His gaze danced slowly from where the blanket started across my chest and stopped at my knees. For a moment I thought he’d grab it and pull it off. Instead he very deliberately threaded the belt through the loops of his jeans and buckled it. Keeping his eyes above my neck, he gave me a slow-motion, one-handed wave and let himself out.
In my dream that night, I was skiing down a steep slope toward Al who was yelling and waving his arms frantically. I skied past him, way too fast, to the bottom of what turned out to be a blind drop and I was falling, falling through the air.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There were fifteen Malones in the phone book, none with the first name Larry or initial L. Directory assistance was no help, ditto the Internet. The sergeant knew how to stay off the radar. Al could get his number, but I knew better than to ask.
Tom Oberg was the Joliet city attorney and a friend from law school. He had clawed his way up the legal department ladder and was wired to everything of consequence in the city. We had become reacquainted when I arrived in town years ago. I called and congratulated him on a recent victory in federal court, and then we talked Tom’s lifeblood, politics, for an interminable length of time before I could get to the point.
“Tom, I hear Larry Malone’s in trouble and I thought I’d give him a call, just to let him know the whole world’s not beating up on him. He was on a couple of my cases, and he’s always been decent. Do you have his number?”
“Out of character for you to cheer up a cop, isn’t it?”
I laughed. “Most of the time, yes. But Malone treated me real well.”
“I’m not supposed to give that information out. Besides, he’s not your type.”
First rule of negotiation: understand the way the other side thinks. “True, but I heard this disciplinary thing is goin’ nowhere, and I may need another favor in the future, you know?”
Tom hesitated. “I hear ya, lovely. Give me a minute to access that data base.” I heard keystrokes in the background. “Ready?”
“Shoot.”
“Phone is 731-1465. Says he lives at 2975 Beacon if you want to send a card.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“No problem, just don’t let on how you found him.”
“We never had this conversation.”
Tom warned me not to go jogging in unincorporated areas. After we hung up, I made a mental note to email my city council member about what a great job the legal department was doing under Tom’s leadership.
The autopsy report Al had faxed was long and filled with medical jargon. The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the cranium, instrumentality unknown. If the killer went to trial, DNA on the golf club would presumably be matched to Sam and it would be identified as the murder weapon. I waded through the morning’s appointments and checked voice mail before lunch. Al had left a message that the Nova from the funeral was registered to a Digger Cullerton in South Lombard, a rural community about thirty miles south of Joliet. Since we had parted on ambiguous terms, his message was a surprise, albeit a pleasant one. He also left his personal cell phone number.
My calendar was clear for the afternoon. I locked the office and grabbed a sandwich to go.
As I headed down the interstate it occurred to me that maybe I should call Al and thank him. He answered on the fourth ring.
“It’s Susan.”
“Yeah.”
“I just wanted to say thanks for getting Cullerton’s address. I…I didn’t know if we were still friends.”
The pause was so lengthy I thought the call was dropped. “I don’t know if we’re still friends, either. It seems to be a one-way street. I’m giving information; you’re holding back and going your merry way.”
A gust of wind hijacked the car and tried to blow it into the other lane. I gripped the wheel tightly and fought for control. The blast moved on.
“I thought there was something more between us than information-swapping.”
“Swapping is back and forth, give and take. You do not swap. You take and then you want more.”
“My, we are being blunt today, aren’t we?”
“Blunt and truth are usually the same.”
“Okay.” I sounded way too loud, even to my own ears. “I did give you Righetti. There’s something there.”
“Point for Susan,” he said in a somewhat softer tone.
“Al, I’m on my way to Cullerton’s now. Why don’t I call you afterwards?”
A gap of silence.
“Do that.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
If a real estate agent described 925 West Poplar as “modest,” he’d be flirting with fraud. The clapboard house, which was more like a shack, slouched on a narrow, overgrown lot. A concrete stoop led to a fatigued wooden porch. I rapped twice on the weathered door. The paint that still clung to it was green; the rest had peeled off a long time ago. I waited, then banged with the side
of my fist.
“Hold on!” A hoarse voice cried out. The door opened by inches and the whites of the occupant’s eyes materialized from the dim interior like two puddles of cream in a dark chocolate pudding.
“Mr. Cullerton? Digger Cullerton?” I asked.
“Says so on the mailbox.” His voice rumbled from a place deep within and was not unfriendly.
“I’m Susan Marshfield, from Joliet. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind.”
Misshapen flaps protruded from the side of his head. Pouches under his eyes hung halfway down his cheekbones.
“What do you wanna talk about?”
“You attended Sam Kendall’s funeral. I was wondering how you knew him.”
Cullerton shaded his eyes with a slightly trembling hand and surveyed the area in front of his house. Apparently satisfied, he teetered out, leaning heavily on a cane, and lowered himself to a sitting position on the edge of the porch. He motioned me to sit beside him. I did so, hoping my trench coat was thick enough to absorb splinters and rusty nails. Even though it was only early spring, the porch was a little harbor of warm sun.
“Good to get out of that house once in a while,” he said.
“Yeah. Gets a little close.” Crevices in his face intersected and forked off each other like lines on a county road map.
“Could be I just like going to funerals of rich, important people.”
“Yeah, it’s probably a hobby,” I replied. “But it was a cold day to come all that way on a lark. And you looked like you were having some pretty serious thoughts.”
A sudden whirring noise grabbed our attention and an object struck Cullerton’s house with a sharp crack. I turned just in time to see a stone bounce off his front window. I shot down the stoop to the sidewalk. To the left, hidden from the porch by a hedge, two boys who couldn’t have been more than nine or ten snickered and slapped each other on the back. When they spotted me they almost choked on their laughter. One took off on foot, abandoning his bicycle. The other tried to pedal away, but his coordination deserted him. I grabbed his jacket firmly at the collar.
“What’s your name?”
“Lemme go.” He squirmed mightily.
“I asked you a question.”
He started to cry. “Joshua.”
“Do you know you just committed a crime, Joshua?” I asked pleasantly. “No, Robert did it. He threw the stone,” the boy wailed.
“Settle down, Joshua. You were with Robert and you knew what he was doing. That makes you just as guilty as him. In fact, it’s two crimes. Assault and property damage.”
I pursed my lips. “Let’s see. The chief of police here is Pershall, right?”
I knew him, a benefit of having represented several DWI clients from this town.
“Uh…I guess so.”
“I think we’re going to go see him,” I said and started to guide the boy to my car.
“No!” he yelped and pulled away. I tightened my grip.
“Hmm…let me think. What’s your last name, Joshua?”
“Gardner.” He stopped struggling.
“Okay, Joshua Gardner. I have a proposition for you. You know Mr. Cullerton, the man who lives in the house you and Robert just threw the stone at?”
The kid nodded miserably.
“Well, Mr. Cullerton’s a special friend of mine. If he has any more problems, I’m going to find you and Robert and we’re going to the police station, understand?”
The boy’s eyes grew very large. He nodded. “We won’t give Mr. Cullerton any more trouble.”
“Okay, Joshua.” I relinquished my grip. “You make sure Robert gets my message, and you give him his bike back, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He agreed eagerly.
Mr. Cullerton had hobbled out to the sidewalk to observe the proceedings. After the boy rode away, I examined the window.
“No damage.”
“Kids’ve been doing that for a long time. Broke the window last month. Had to get me a new one.”
“Well, I don’t think it’ll happen again, at least from those two. If it does, you call the police and ask for Chief Pershall. I’ll let him know what happened today and he’ll take care of it.” In South Lombard, the cops might actually pay attention to this kind of nuisance.
“I’ll do that, missy.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Our eyes met. He was little more than an apparition, but something about him was so authentic that I felt drawn to him in a way that was almost spiritual.
“Kin you help me sit down again?” he asked after a quiet moment.
I took his elbow and guided him gently back to the steps. Once again, he settled down awkwardly and I balanced across from him.
“Why do you want to know ’bout me and Judge Kendall?”
“He was a good friend of mine. I’m…I really need to know why he was killed.”
“But you’re not the police.”
“No.”
“If you went to all the trouble to find me and then drove down here to talk to me, this must be pretty important.”
I shrugged. “It is to me.”
His gaze swept to the distant horizon and back again. “If you’re his friend you might not like what I have to say.”
I sat up straight. “It doesn’t matter if I like it or not.”
He laid his cane across his lap and studied me unabashedly. “I see.”
I basked in the sun’s warmth. My usual impatience to get down to business was in recession: Mr. Cullerton had time like Bill Gates has money. I took my watch off and stuffed it in my pocket.
“I had a grandson once,” he began, kneading his thigh. “My son was home here on leave from the Army. He met the momma and they spent his whole leave together. Nine months later when she had the baby, he was overseas. The momma and the baby lived here with me till she went off with someone else and left the little guy.” He nodded at the recollection. “So I raised him up. Took care of him every day, fed him, got him into school.” He looked at me for understanding.
“What was his name?”
“Anthony.”
I had to strain to hear.
“What happened to Anthony?” I asked after a lengthy silence.
His upper body swayed from side to side like a metronome set at super slow speed. “September two and a half years ago he was a senior here at South Lombard High. He was a real good basketball player, and three colleges were talking to him, offering scholarships.
“After he got his driver’s license, I’d let him borrow the Nova. One night the damn fool car quit on him and he had to walk home. They say he was probably walkin’ right where he should be on the side of the road. But there was no sidewalk and no lights over on Stanley Street.” He gestured to the north. “They fixed it now.”
“Uh-huh,” I said uneasily.
“Anthony didn’t make it home that night.”
“What happened?”
“They found him the next morning. He was thrown ’bout fifty feet, broke his neck, inside injuries.”
He reached into a pocket of his overalls and pulled out a dingy handkerchief. He twisted it until it disappeared in his bony hand. “They told me he died right away.”
I had heard too many hard luck stories from too many hard up clients. But Cullerton’s narrative was different, raw and palpably genuine.
“The police called it a hit and run and tried to find out who done it, but after a while they had to close the books.” He rubbed a thumb across the worn handle of his cane. “That’s the part of the story everyone knows,” he sighed.
Minutes passed. I thought Cullerton forgot I was there. Then he lifted his chin. “This here’s the part you might be interested in. After Anthony died, I started getting money orders every month, like clockwork. They were from the post office, always dated the first of the month.
“Nothin’ like that’s ever happened to me. I put two and two together and figured the money had to
be coming from whoever hit Anthony. But the ‘from’ part on the money order was always blank, and my name was printed. The envelope it came in was typed with no return address, ever.”
What did you do?”
“I got it in me that I just had to know who did this.” A slow, sad smile crossed his face. “Maybe kinda like you need to know why your judge was killed. So I took one of the money orders to my post office here in town and they told me which post office sold it. They can tell by the numbers. Every one of ’em came from the main post office in downtown Joliet.”
He had my total attention.
“Finally, ’bout six or eight months after I started gettin’ them, I went up to that post office. I was the first one in the door on the first of the month. I got me a chair and I waited, all day. I told the post office people why I was there, so they wouldn’t throw me out. I did that, on the first of the month, for three months in a row.”
The handkerchief hung, limp and forgotten, from his hand.
“And for three months in a row, Sam Kendall came in and bought a money order, early, before nine.”
Some geese honked as they flew north overhead. I watched until they disappeared.
“What then?”
“The post office people were nice, but they wouldn’t tell me anything about the money order he bought. And they don’t ask for I.D. when someone buys a money order with cash.”
“Circumstantial,” I commented flatly.
“Yep,” he agreed. “So I got smart. The next month, I got in line right after Mr. Kendall and I bought the next money order. And when the check came in the mail the next day, I compared ’em.”
“And?” I asked softly, knowing the answer.
“Same everything, ’cept my serial number was one more than his.” Cullerton’s tone was apologetic.
The post office was only a couple blocks from the courthouse, right on Sam’s way to work. I knew what to think; I just didn’t want to think it.
“I wonder if he knew who you were, waiting there.”
The old man let out a low, mirthless chuckle. “I weren’t wearing no sign. I knew who he was, cause I got cable TV here, living alone, and he was on the local station, and I seen him in the paper once in a while. After this happened, I seen where he made judge.”