No Stone Unturned (30 page)

Charlie Reese insisted that I cover the New Holland high school basketball game Saturday night because his regular sports photographer had the day off for his daughter’s Confirmation.

“Short won’t let you work just one story,” he said. “He’s making noises again about handing the murder case to Walsh. Now I’m ready to make allowances for you, but you’ve got to help me out on nights like tonight. It’ll keep Artie off our backs.”

I agreed, figuring a basketball game was better than a VFW Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting or some other such event I might have landed. So, at eight o’clock, I was courtside to watch the Falcons of Albany High crush the New Holland Bucks, 85 to 63.

On my way back to the paper, I stopped at Korky’s Liquors and bought a fifth of Scotch for later on. Hot time in the old town tonight. I left the bottle on the front seat and let myself into the office to develop my film.

For Monday’s edition, Ralphie Fisher, the
Republic
’s sports editor, chose a tight shot of a grimly determined New Holland player defending against a much taller opponent from Albany.

“By the way,” said Ralphie, “Bobby left a lens adapter for you. It’s in the lab.”

I’d been meaning to try a longer lens I’d bought years earlier for a different camera, and needed the adapter to attach it.

“Thanks, I’ll grab it before I leave.”

After I’d captioned the film, I sat in front of the typewriter and tapped out two articles related to the Shaw murder. One examined the links between the two murders and Tufts’s Engineering Department, while the other concentrated on the medical and physical evidence in the two cases: blood, fingerprints, and autopsies.

By the time I dropped the stories on Charlie Reese’s desk, it was after midnight. I walked out into the brisk night air, yawned, and stretched. I hadn’t forgotten about Pukey Boyle, whose constant presence in my rearview mirror had not endeared him to me, and I wondered if he might be waiting for me. A quick inspection of Main Street allayed my fears.

I drove up Market Hill, heading home, then realized I’d forgotten to take the lens adapter from the lab. I turned around at Summit Avenue, the crest of Market Hill, and headed back down the incline. As I neared Division Street at the bottom, I pumped the brake pedal lightly and felt the car slow. On the second pump, the brakes responded momentarily and then released, and the pedal hit the floor. The car began to accelerate down the hill, pulled by gravity and its own weight. The brakes were gone. I shifted to low, slowing the rate of acceleration, but not the acceleration itself. The grade of the hill seemed to grow steeper as the car’s transmission screamed against the speed. The last reading I remember on the speedometer was thirty-four miles per hour. I saw pedestrians ahead and instinctively steered the car directly into a large elm tree just beyond the sidewalk. It was the only impediment in sight. The crash propelled the car several feet straight up into the air, and only a fortuitous quirk of physics prevented it from somersaulting down the street into even more mayhem. Instead, the car bounced to rest a few feet from where it had hit the tree. Glass rained down about me after impact, and some dislodged parts of my Plymouth, including three of the four hubcaps, rolled away from the scene of the accident, clattering in the quiet night. The fifth of Scotch I’d left in the car smashed to pieces against the dashboard, splattering whiskey everywhere. I slumped over in the driver’s seat, stars in my eyes and a lump growing on my forehead. I heard dogs barking and voices calling out to each other.

Ten minutes later, two firemen pulled me from the wreck. I ignored their advice to lie down and, instead, leaned on the unscathed left rear fender of my demolished car.

After they’d stopped my bloody nose with gauze and I was able to identify the correct number of fingers held up for my inspection, the patrolman investigating the crash asked me to walk a straight line.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I mumbled. “I can hardly stand up.”

“It’s either that or a blood test,” he said.

I assured him that I hadn’t been drinking, that the whiskey had been unopened before the crash. But he wasn’t buying it, and the ambulance took me to the hospital for observation and a blood test.

Sam Belson, the young doctor on ER duty at St. Joseph’s, siphoned some blood out of my arm at the insistence of Patrolman William Trevor, badge 479, who was undoubtedly hoping for the first collar of his career.

“Look officer,” said Sam. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job, but any fool can see that this woman hasn’t had a drink all day.”

“She sure smells like booze,” said the cop.

“Her clothes, yes, but there’s nothing on her breath.”

“We’ll let the blood test determine that,” answered Trevor, though I could see he was beginning to doubt his conviction.

“Do you know this is a respected writer from the paper?” Belson warned the cop, who ignored us both.

I asked an orderly to call Charlie Reese to tell him what had happened. He arrived fifteen minutes later and, with threats of a nasty lawsuit, convinced the police officer to accept the good doctor’s professional opinion.

Sam Belson and Officer Trevor left Charlie and me alone in the ER waiting room. Charlie wanted to know exactly what had happened. After I explained that my brakes had failed, he chewed me out for neglecting my car maintenance.

“I had the brakes checked two months ago when the car passed inspection at Ornuti’s Garage,” I argued. “And you know Dom Ornuti; he wouldn’t give his own mother a sticker if her tire pressure was low.”

The ER doors swung open, and Big Frank Olney strode in.

“Who invited you?” I asked, holding an ice pack to my forehead.

“I just wanted to shake hands with the human cannonball,” he said, swallowing a growing smile. “Actually, I heard what happened on the scanner about a half hour ago. I went over to Market Street to check out the damage you did. Something about that tree you didn’t like?”

“Where’s my car now?” I asked.

“New Holland police towed it to Phil’s. But you’re not driving that heap again; it’s totaled.”

“I don’t want to drive it, Frank,” I said, pulling the ice away from my cold head. “I want Dom Ornuti to have a look at the brakes.”

“What for?”

“I want to know how they were cut.”

I went home and climbed into bed, nursing a terrific headache. Charlie Reese ordered me to take a few days off to recuperate. The sick leave was opportune, freeing me of all editorial responsibilities except those I wanted to take on. No more NHHS basketball games or VFW meetings to interfere with the Shaw murder.

SUNDAY, DECEMBER 4, 1960

Despite a banging head and some dizziness, I had no time for bed on Sunday morning. At eight, I called Frank Olney, who had arranged for Dom Ornuti to meet us at Phil’s Garage at ten. After a cup of coffee, four aspirins, and a warm bath, I dressed and headed to Fiorello’s to borrow Fadge’s car, a ’57 Nash Ambassador.

Never stoic where pain was concerned, Fadge winced at the bandage over my nose and my blackening eyes. Not a good look for a girl. I said it was nothing and sat down in a booth to do the Sunday crossword puzzle over another cup of coffee. As I passed the time waiting for my appointment at Phil’s Garage, Tommy Quint walked in.

“Hey, Tom,” smiled Fadge. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

“I came home for the funeral Monday and stayed. I’m going back to Rochester this afternoon.”

I lifted myself out of the booth and joined them at the counter. “Hi, Tom. Remember me?”

The young man recoiled when he saw me, and I couldn’t be sure if it was my face or my presence that troubled him. He nodded hello and took a stool at the counter.

“What time are you going back?” asked Fadge.

“Later. I’m not in any hurry.”

“Taking the bus?” I asked.

Tommy turned on his stool to face me, still looking horrified at the sight. “I’ve got a car.”

I remembered that he had taken the bus the weekend before, two days after Jordan’s murder.

“Don’t you usually take the bus?” I asked.

“What business is it of yours?” he said, his discomfort turning hostile. “I don’t take the bus to Rochester because it stops a million times.”

“What about last weekend? You took the bus then, didn’t you?”

He glared at me, sweating. “Yeah, my car was in the garage. I picked it up at Ornuti’s Thursday. Go ask Vinnie Donati if you don’t believe me.”

“I’m meeting Dom Ornuti about a half hour from now,” I said. “I can check your story very easily.”

“Leave him alone, Ellie,” said Fadge in a low voice.

“I don’t know why you don’t believe me,” said Tommy, suddenly at the point of tears. “I told you I loved Jordan. Everyone in town knew I did.”

He wiped his left sleeve across his wet nose and caught his lip on his watchband. It must have hurt like the devil, because he hopped around swearing for about thirty seconds. I thought it was pretty funny, but Fadge frowned and shook his head disapprovingly at me. Then he handed Tommy a napkin and put his arm around him.

When I left Fiorello’s a few minutes later, I bent over and examined the ground under Tommy Quint’s dented, white Plymouth. Piece of junk, but clean. I wondered, though, if it had been leaking oil the Friday before.

I had met Dom Ornuti only once: the time two months before when he inspected my Belvedere. He wore a thin mustache over his long mouth and bluish lips. His skin color betrayed a liver problem (due to heavy drinking, according to rumor), and he smoked like a Turk: Lucky Strikes. A lean, sullen type, Dom was no conversationalist.

Frank had invited him to Phil’s, a competing garage, to assess the damage and give an opinion on the brakes he had so recently pronounced fit for the road.

This day at Phil’s Garage, he grunted hello to me. He dropped to the pavement, scooted beneath the twisted chassis, and loosed a satisfied hoot a few seconds later. Shimmying back out from under the car, he popped to his feet and beamed smiles at the sheriff and me.

“You thought I missed something, didn’t you?” he accused me, now gloating and cocky. “Well, think again. Someone did a job on your brakes.”