How Like an Angel (6 page)

“And then what happened to the stranger?” Quinn said.

Ronda lit a cigarette and scowled at the burning match. “Well, there's the weak point of the story, of course. He disappeared as completely as O'Gorman. For a while there the sheriff was picking up damn near everyone who wasn't actually born in Chicote, but nothing was proved. I'm an amateur student of crime in a way, and it seems to me a crime of impulse like this one, even though it's often bungled by lack of planning, may remain unsolved because of the very lack of planning.”

“Who decided that it was a crime of impulse?”

“The sheriff, the coroner, the coroner's jury. Why? Don't you agree?”

“All I know is what you've told me,” Quinn said. “And that hitchhiking stranger seems a little vague.”

“I admit that.”

“If he had a bloody struggle with O'Gorman, we'll have to assume the stranger got some blood on his own clothes. Were there any shacks or cottages in the vicinity where he could have broken in to change his clothes, steal some food and so on?”

“A few. But they weren't broken into, the sheriff's men checked every one of them.”

“So we're left with a very wet stranger, probably with blood on him.”

“The rain could have washed it away.”

“It's not that easy,” Quinn said. “Put yourself in the stranger's place. What would you have done?”

“Walked into town, bought some dry clothes.”

“It was night, the stores were closed.”

“Then I'd have checked into a motel, I guess.”

“You'd be pretty conspicuous, the clerk would certainly re­member and probably report you.”

“Well, dammit, he must have done something,” Ronda said. “Maybe he got a ride with somebody else. All I know is, he disappeared.”

“Or she. Or they.”

“All right, she, it, him or her, they disappeared.”

“If they ever existed.”

Ronda leaned across the desk. “What are you getting at?”

“Suppose the person in the car wasn't a stranger. Let's say it was a friend, a close friend, even a relative.”

“I told you before, the sheriff couldn't find a single person who'd say a word against O'Gorman.”

“The kind of person I'm thinking of wouldn't be likely to come forward and admit he had a grudge if he'd just murdered O'Gorman. Or she.”

“You keep repeating
or she.
Why?”

“Why not? We're only dealing in possibilities anyway.”

“I think you mean Martha O'Gorman.”

“Wives,” Quinn said dryly, “have been known to harbor grudges against husbands.”

“Not Martha. Besides, she was at home that night, with the children.”

“Who were in bed, sleeping?”

“Naturally they were in bed, sleeping,” Ronda said irri­tably. “It was about 10:30. What do you think they were doing, playing poker and having a few beers? Richard was only seven then, and Sally five.”

“How old was O'Gorman at the time?”

“Around your age, say forty.”

Quinn didn't correct him. He felt forty, it seemed only fair that he should look it. “What about O'Gorman's descrip­tion?”

“Blue eyes, fair skin, black curly hair. Medium build, about five foot nine or ten. There was nothing particularly arresting about his appearance but he was nice-looking.”

“Have you a picture of him?”

“Five or six blown-up snapshots. Martha let me have them while she was still hoping O'Gorman would be found alive, maybe suffering from amnesia. Her hopes died hard but once they died, that was it. She's utterly convinced O'Gorman's car hit the bridge accidentally and O'Gorman was swept away by the river.”

“And the piece of shirt with the bloodstains?”

“She thinks he was cut by the impact of the car against the guardrail. The windshield was broken and two of the win­dows, so it's possible. There's one argument against it, though: O'Gorman had the reputation of being a very cautious driver.”

“What about suicide?”

“Again, it's possible,” Ronda said, “and again there are elements that refute it. First, he was a healthy man, with no real financial worries or emotional problems, none that came to light anyway. Second, he was a strict Catholic, as Martha is. And I mean the kind that practices religion and believes every last word and comma of it. Third, he was in love with his wife and crazy about his children.”

“A lot of what you've just told me doesn't come under the heading of fact. Think about it, Ronda.”

“You think about it,” Ronda said, grimacing. “After five years of veering this way and veering that way, maybe I need a fresh approach. Go on.”

“All right. Let's say a fact is what can be proved. Fact one, he was healthy. Fact two, he was a practicing Catholic for whom suicide would constitute a deadly sin. The other things you mentioned are not facts but inferences. He may have had financial and emotional problems he didn't talk about. He may not have been as crazy about his wife and children as he pretended to be.”

“Then he put up quite a front. And, frankly, I don't be­lieve O'Gorman had the brains to put up any kind of front. I'd never say anything like this to Martha, but to me O'Gor­man seemed almost dull-witted, in fact, stupid.”

“What did he do, for a living?”

“He was a pay-roll clerk for one of the oil companies. I'm pretty sure Martha helped him at night with his job though she'd die before admitting it. Martha's loyalties are strong, even to her own mistakes.”

“Of which O'Gorman was one?”

“I think he'd have been a mistake for any really intelligent woman to marry. O'Gorman just didn't have it. The two of them were more like mother and son than husband and wife, though Martha was actually a few years younger. I suppose the truth is that the pickings in Chicote, for a woman as bright as Martha, weren't very good and she did the best she could. O'Gorman was, as I said, nice-looking with a lot of curly black hair and so on. When holes in the head are hidden by big blue eyes, even a woman like Martha can be susceptible. For­tunately, the kids take after her, they're both sharp as tacks.”

“Mrs. O'Gorman,” Quinn said, “appears to have quite an aversion to the police.”

“It's justified. She went through a very rough experience, and this isn't a very civilized town. The sheriff's an eager beaver who couldn't build a dam if his life depended on it. His attitude throughout the whole affair seemed to be that Martha should have kept O'Gorman from going out in the rain that night, then nothing would have happened.”

“Just why did he go out?”

“According to Martha, he thought he'd made an error in one of the books that day and wanted to return to the field office to check.”

“Did anyone take the trouble to examine the books?”

“Oh yes. O'Gorman was right. A mistake had been made. The bookkeeper found it easily, a simple error in addition.”

“What do you think that proves?”

“Proves?” Ronda repeated, frowning. “That O'Gorman was dull-witted but conscientious, just as I said he was.”

“It could prove something else, though.”

“Such as?”

“That O'Gorman made that mistake deliberately.”

“Why would he do a thing like that?”

“So he'd have a legitimate excuse to go back to the field office that night. Did he often do work in the evenings?”

“I told you, I think Martha often helped him but she'd never admit it,” Ronda said. “Anyway, you're out in left field as far as the facts are concerned. O'Gorman didn't have the brains or the character for intrigue of any kind. Granted, a man can put on an act of being stupider than he is. But he can't give a perfect performance twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year, the way O'Gorman did. No, Quinn. There could only be one reason why he went back to the office that night, during the worst rainstorm of the year—he was scared stiff of being caught in an error and losing his job.”

“You seem sure.”

“Positive. You can sit there and dream up intrigues, secret meetings, conspiracies and whatever. I can't. I knew O'Gor­man. He couldn't think his way out of a wet paper bag.”

“As you pointed out yourself, however, he had Mrs. O'Gor­man to assist him in his work. Maybe she helped him in other things, too.”

“Look, Quinn,” Ronda said, slapping the desk with the flat of his hand. “We're talking about two very nice people.”

“As nice as the little lady you mentioned who was caught with her fingers in the till? I'm not trying to give you a bad time, Ronda, I'm just puzzling a few possibilities.”

“The possibilities in this case are almost endless. Ask the sheriff, if you don't believe me. Practically every crime in the book, except arson and infanticide, was suggested and investi­gated. Maybe you'd be interested in seeing my file on the case?”

“Very much,” Quinn said.

“I kept a personal file, in addition to what we printed in the
Beacon,
because of Martha being an old friend. Also because —well, frankly, I've always had the feeling that the case would be reopened some day, that maybe some burglar in Kansas City, or some guy up on another murder charge in New Orleans or Seattle, would confess to killing O'Gorman and settle everything once and for all.”

“Didn't you ever think, or hope, that O'Gorman himself might turn up?”

“I hoped. I didn't think, though. When O'Gorman left the house that night he had two one-dollar bills in his wallet, his car, and the clothes on his back, and that's all. Martha handled the money for the family, she knew to a cent how much O'Gorman was carrying.”

“No clothes were missing from his closet?”

“None,” Ronda said.

“Did he have a bank account?”

“A joint one with Martha. He could easily have cashed a check that afternoon without Martha finding out about it until later, but he didn't. He also didn't borrow any money.”

“Did he have anything valuable he might have taken along to pawn?”

“He owned a wrist watch worth about a hundred dollars, a present from Martha. It was found in his bureau drawer.” Ronda lit another cigarette, leaned back in the swivel chair and studied the ceiling. “Aside from all the physical evidence which would rule out a voluntary disappearance, there is the emotional evidence: O'Gorman had become, over the years, completely dependent on Martha, he couldn't have lasted a week without her, he was like a little boy.”

“Little boys his age can become a nuisance,” Quinn said dryly. ‘‘Maybe the police were wrong to rule out infanticide.”

“If that's a joke, it's a bad one.”

“Most of mine are.”

“I'll get that file for you,” Ronda said, rising. “I don't know why I'm doing all this, except I guess I'd like to see the case closed once and for all so Martha could start seriously considering remarriage. She'd make a fine wife. You prob­ably haven't seen her at her best.”

“No, and I doubt that I will.”

“She's lively, full of fun—”

“The pitch doesn't fit the product,” Quinn said, “and I'm not in the market.”

“You're very suspicious.”

“By nature, training, experience and observation, yes.”

Ronda went out and Quinn sat back in the chair, frowning. Through the glass paneling he could see the tops of three heads, Ronda's bushy gray one, a man's crew cut, and a woman's elaborate bee-hive-style coiffure, the color of per­simmons.

The shirt,
he thought.
That's it, it's the shirt that bothers me, the piece of cloth snagged on the hinge of the car door. On the stormiest night of the year why wasn't O'Gorman wearing a jacket or a raincoat?

Ronda came back, carrying two cardboard boxes labeled simply Patrick O'Gorman. The boxes contained newspaper clippings, photographs, snapshots, copies of telegrams and letters to and from various police officials. Though most of them originated in California, Nevada and Arizona, others came from remote parts of the country and Mexico and Can­ada. The material was arranged in chronological order, but to go through it all would require considerable time and patience.

Quinn said, “May I borrow the file overnight?”

“What do you intend to do with it?”

“Take it to my motel and examine it. There are one or two points I'd like to go into more fully—the condition of the car, for instance. Was there a heater in it and was it switched on?”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

“If the accident happened the way Mrs. O'Gorman believes it did, O'Gorman was driving around on the stormiest night of the year in his shirt sleeves.”