Speak Ill of the Living (5 page)

Chapter 5

The police arrived in their Ford Crown Victorias, white with blue and gold stripes. A belligerent lieutenant named Brill wanted to hear Eddie's story again.

“But I told you guys everything,” Eddie protested. He looked down Dr. Crane's driveway, past the barrier of police tape, and saw a television news van pull into the cul-de-sac. Word of Crane's death had leaked.

This is crazy. I'm the only reporter with the full story, and I can't get away to write.

The lieutenant was short and built like a power-lifter. His shirt collar dug deep into his thick neck. “So why were you in the man's garage?” he asked.

Eddie started to sigh, but stopped himself. No sense aggravating this lieutenant and dragging out this interview longer than it had to be. “I heard a door, all right?” Eddie said, “I went looking for Crane. Found him hanging in the garage. Ran to my car. Called you guys.”

“Uh-huh. So you heard a noise and then broke into the garage,” the detective paraphrased, scratching notes on a pad.

“Don't write it
that
way,” Eddie said. “The door was unlocked. I just went in.”

Lieutenant Brill looked up from his notes. His eyes were the lightest blue Eddie had ever seen. “Doesn't really matter, under the law.”

Eddie sighed. Couldn't help himself. “Somebody else was here,” he said. “That's the person you ought to be interrogating.”

“Crane lived alone,” the detective said. “There's no evidence anybody else was here, except you and him.”

“I'm telling you, I heard somebody.”

The lieutenant went back to writing. “Mm-hm,” he said.

Eddie felt the sudden stab of caffeine withdrawal. It quickly grew worse, as if his skull was a diving bell that had gone too deep.

Another voice said, “When I heard that a reporter found the body, I hoped it wouldn't be you—”

Eddie turned. It was Detective Orr. She looked ticked.

“—but I
knew
it would be, Eddie.”

“I explained everything three times already,” Eddie said. “I need to go.”

Orr ignored him. She nodded to the lieutenant, and the two of them walked out of earshot. She murmured to Brill, he mumbled to her, and then Orr came back alone to speak to Eddie.

“Crane left a note,” she said.

Eddie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He didn't say anything.

“Did you read it?”

A second TV news van pulled into the cul-de-sac. The reporter from the first van was taping her report with police cars and the house in the background. Eddie's skull felt like it was about to buckle.

Eddie asked, “Is that what Brill was busting my balls about?” He shrugged, irked that TV news was beating him on a story he had cold. TV should
never
beat print. He felt like he was letting down the brotherhood of ink scribes. “What do you think, Lucy? Of course I read the goddam note.”

Orr gave a disapproving little grunt. “I wish you could have told me differently.” She pointed in the lieutenant's general direction. “Brill wants to arrest you for interfering with a police investigation.”

“Oh, come on,” Eddie complained, “That's a bullshit charge.” His head was in a vise. His temperature was rising. Why couldn't
somebody
make a caffiene patch or some gum for coffee drinkers who needed help between cups? He said, “The investigation didn't even start until I called you.”

“Of course,” she said. “But Brill can keep you in lockup, force you to pay for a lawyer—they ain't cheap—make your life hell for twenty-four hours or so, till the charges are dropped.”

She was right. Eddie calmed himself with a deep breath. He said, “Look, I'm not proud of what I did. But this is a big story—Crane admitted that he
made it up
as he went along for forty years. All those cases? When the district attorney hears this, he'll shit his liver.”

“He already has,” Orr said quietly.

They stepped out of the driveway, to let the black hearse drive by.

Orr said, “In light of the Roger Lime fiasco, I've been assigned to investigate Crane's death, and to determine what evidence there is that he falsified his reports.”

Eddie whistled. “A big job.”

“The lieutenant said that you heard something, before you found the body?”

“He said that? I didn't think he cared about what I heard.”

“He doesn't, but I do.” She squinted at him.

Eddie told her about the sound that he heard. She took notes. Then they retraced Eddie's path around the house, to the back deck, and then into the barn. Detective Orr timed it at two minutes, fifteen seconds, give or take.

“Nobody chokes that fast,” she said, more to herself than to Eddie.

“I thought hanging was instantaneous—broken neck.”

“Only from the gallows, when the body can drop six feet or so—and even then it's not always instant,” Orr said. “No, Dr. Crane suffocated at the end of that rope, and that would have taken longer than two-fifteen. Hard to pinpoint time-of-death with body temperature on such a warm day, but he was probably alive within the hour you found him.”

They walked back to the driveway. The pressure on Eddie's head had stabilized. He liked Detective Orr's methodical style. She was the constant drip of water that eventually wore away a stone. Eddie had more information that any other reporter on the story. If he could get a cup of coffee and a telephone line in the next thirty minutes, he'd be okay.

“So either I imagined a door slamming,” Eddie said, “or somebody ran out of the garage when I came calling for Crane.”

Detective Orr was quiet a moment. Then she said, “Could have been neighborhood kids, here to steal a bike.”

“You don't believe that.”

She gave him the fake smile he hated.

***

The TV was on in the Perez Brothers diner. The place was packed with the lunch crowd, mostly third-shift factory workers ordering their first meal of the day: cheese omelets and Budweiser. Four men were engaged in an animated argument in Spanish, either about Massachusetts politics or the metric system—Eddie wasn't sure.

He pounded the story into his laptop.

Bobby Perez refilled Eddie's coffee mug. “How can you write with all this noise, man?” he asked.

Eddie kept his eyes on the keyboard. “Deadline makes me deaf.” He typed some more, and then added: “This place is peaceful compared to the newsroom I used to work in.”

“Oh yeah, you worked for
The Empire
, man, that rag.”

Eddie finished a final sentence, and then cracked, “I was young, I needed the money.” He smiled and handed Bobby the modem cord.

After he transmitted his story, Eddie relaxed with coffee and a rumpled newspaper left behind by an earlier customer. It was the current edition of
The Second Voice
, gamely reporting the reappearance of Roger Lime, a week after every other paper in America had the story. Lew Cuhna had run the photograph the kidnappers had released, under the double-decked banner:

Thought to be Murdered Last Spring Bank President Held for Ransom

The story was a week late, but at least Cuhna had used his own byline on it, and had done a competent job with the writing.

The noon news was starting on TV.

“Could you turn this up, Bobby?” Eddie asked. “That's my competition.”

Eddie had little tolerance for local TV news, and the noon broadcasts were usually the worst. The TV anchormodel teased the rehashed material from the night before—a bar stabbing, a man who found his class ring twenty years after he had lost it down the toilet, and the Red Sox rain-out in Texas. Then she began a breathless reading of the morning's one fresh story:

Local coroner Dr. Alvin Crane was found dead at his home this morning, the victim of an apparent suicide. Crane has come under fire in the past week over his misidentification of the skeletal remains of kidnapped financier Roger Lime…

Bobby Perez pointed to the TV. “This your story, Eddie?”

“Yeah, but they don't have half the material I have. They'll be updating their six-o'clock report with my exclusive stuff.”

Sources close to the investigation say that evidence found at the scene suggests that the doctor was despondent about his mistaken work on the Lime case, and perhaps other cases going back forty years…

Eddie clapped his hands on his head.

How did TV news get that info?

Eddie was the only reporter to read the note.

Lieutenant Brill!

He knew Eddie was about to break the story, so he leaked Eddie's scoop.

Dr. Crane was pronounced dead at the scene, after a local freelance journalist, Edward Bourque, discovered his body while at the house to ask Crane for an interview…And now a check of the weather…

Eddie was slack jawed. Most reporters despised becoming part of a story. Those who didn't became columnists. Eddie had never wanted a column. If Eddie became too closely identified with the death of Dr. Crane, no news organization with any ethics would pay him to write about the case.

Bobby grinned and slapped Eddie on the shoulder. “You're famous, man. So you found him, huh? And the old man—he was dead?”

Eddie frowned and then downed his coffee. He thought about the noise he had heard at Dr. Crane's place. His palms grew damp reliving the feeling of Crane's skin, the fading warmth left behind by a life that had hastily departed.

“Yeah, he was dead, all right,” Eddie grumbled, “though just barely.”

Chapter 6

Eddie's
Washington Post
was a mess again in the morning, parts of it missing. He made a mental note to call the delivery service. He often made mental notes about trivial items, and rarely followed up on them. He could never remember mental notes. For important stuff, he wrote real notes. A mental note was Eddie's way of telling himself that an inconvenience wasn't important enough to do something about. A few more days without the classified section, and he'd write himself a real note.

General VonKatz was at Eddie's feet, screaming about the dry kibble in his bowl.

“I've got nothing to share,” Eddie told him. He leaned over and showed the General his breakfast plate—a mound of fried red cabbage with Velveeta. “See?”

The General sniffed Eddie's food. Satisfied that nobody was eating better than he, the cat crunched his cereal.

The bag of cabbage discovered in the crisper drawer had been three days past its expiration date. It still went well with a quart of Hawaiian Kona coffee. But, really, what wouldn't? Eddie would happily wash down a plate of potting soil with Kona.

He had planned to dedicate the day to running down the tip Henry had given him. But he found himself loitering over the box scores, unable to start his research. The thought of his brother left Eddie uneasy, and he wasn't sure why.

He pushed the newspaper away and grabbed for the telephone, determined to unscramble Henry's tip. There was just one place that would have all the information he needed. He dialed a local number.

After three rings, a deep, rumbling voice answered, “
Daily Empire
, news library.”

Eddie whispered, “Durkin? It's Eddie Bourque.”

“Bourque? That can't be right. That chicken shit little bastard don't work here anymore.”

Eddie laughed. “You're still campaigning for an ass-kicking. Why don't I come down there and apply one?”

Durkin roared. “That's a good crack, Bourque. The next crack outta you will be your tibia, when I snap it like a candy cane.” He laughed like a dragon on a new pile of gold. “Been a long time, Bourque. What can I do you out of?”

“Same shit as always. I need to see a file.”

“Ooo. You heard the new rules? Employees
only
down here in the library. And that would go triple for you, considering all the trouble you caused this place when you left.”

Eddie was shocked. “Since when do
you
listen to any rules that weren't chipped into stone on a mountain?”

“You're right—there's only ten rules in the world, and there's nothing in them prohibiting a favor for an old friend. I was just softening you up for what you gotta do to get in here without security calling the cops.”

Durkin chuckled. Eddie got a mental picture of the dragon's grin before he sprayed fire. “Here's what I want you to do…”

***

The truck needed shocks; it bounced over pitted streets toward the
Daily Empire
Building.

Or that's where Eddie assumed it was going. He couldn't see a damn thing from the back of the truck, sealed inside a fifty-five gallon metal drum, which, according to its label, was supposed to hold newsprint ink.

This is crazy. Durkin is crazy. I'm crazy
.

The big diesel slammed over a large bump, and Eddie's chin clacked against his knee. His lower legs were going numb.

How much air is in one of these barrels?

He took comfort from the tiny hole in the lid that shone like a star. The truck driver, a buddy of Durkin's from their service in Vietnam, had assured Eddie that plenty of air could squeeze through that pinprick. It was supposed to be a short ride on the flatbed truck with the barrels of ink, but Eddie began to wonder if the driver had taken a wrong turn. It started to get warm inside the barrel.

Finally, the truck stopped, idling. Eddie heard the driver's door open and then slam. And then a muffled conversation:

“S'pose to be seventeen barrels on this truck.”

“That's what I brung you.”

“You got three rows of six, that's eighteen.”

“Eighteen, huh? And you're complaining?”

Muffled laughter.

“Okay, you're fine. Bring 'em in.”

The truck door opened and then slammed again, then the diesel growled and jerked forward. Eddie could feel the truck angling down a ramp. It leveled off, then stopped, and the engine shut off.

Chains rattled. Bolts were thrown open. An electric motor hummed. Eddie's barrel shuddered and clanked into its neighbors. His head banged the steel. He cringed silently and rubbed the spot. He heard a beeping, felt motion, assumed that a forklift was unloading the pallet of ink barrels. The forklift slammed the barrels down and motored off, doing more work nearby. Eddie rubbed his numb ankles. He was supposed to wait in the barrel for Durkin to let him out, but how long could he stand being squished in there?

Soon, the forklift finished and drove off. He heard the truck start again. It snorted and went away. A metal door slammed. And it was quiet outside the barrel.

The pinprick in the lid glowed more dimly than before. Eddie was inside the the
Empire
building, probably in the production warehouse room.

He waited, waited, waited, hearing nothing. After what seemed like half an hour, but probably was less, Eddie felt a wave of claustrophobia. The air inside the barrel grew steamy. Where the hell was Durkin?

Screw it. I gotta get out of here.

Eddie reached his hands to the lid. It was warm. He pressed, gently at first, trying to be quiet. The lid was stuck fast. He pressed harder, as hard as he could. No good. Eddie pounded the lid with the heel of his hand. It made a dull sound that vibrated around him. The lid wouldn't budge.

What if Durkin forgot?

Durkin would never forget.

But what if he got delayed somehow? What if he had a blackout? Or a heart attack?

What if he went out for a sandwich and—by a case of mistaken identity—got arrested for a crime he didn't commit? And then was hauled off to the police station while screaming nonsense about his friend stuffed in an ink barrel. And what if it took the police and a dozen lawyers a week to sort out the facts? Eddie would be decomposing by then. He thought of the perfect headline:

STINK FROM INK IS MAN IN CAN.

Eddie sighed.

Stop thinking stupid stuff.

What if Durkin just forgot?

A door slammed nearby. Eddie held his breath. He thought he heard the clip-clop of metal crutches on the concrete floor. He was about to call out for Durkin when the barrel tipped over.

“Whoa!”

The barrel rang like a gong when it hit. And then it rolled. Eddie slammed around inside like a pair of sneakers in a clothes dryer, until the barrel crashed into a wall and the lid popped off.

Eddie dragged himself out, to a blast of hoarse laugher.

“Goddamit, Durkin,” Eddie said, staggering to his feet, “I'd give you that ass kicking right now, if my legs weren't numb.”

Durkin laughed even harder. His huge shoulders jiggled. He balanced on his one leg and pounded his metal crutches on the floor. He looked different than when Eddie had last seen him. Same big square head, same silver hair, but his goatee had spread to a full white beard. His diamond stud earring had been replaced by a humble paperclip, threaded through the hole in his earlobe.

Eddie stamped his feet. They erupted with prickles as the blood returned. Durkin's laugh was so hearty, so long-lasting, that even Eddie had to smile at the prank.

Durkin balled his massive fist. “Anytime you think you're man enough, Bourque,” he said.

“Someday,” Eddie promised. “I'm a lot younger than you. You won't be bench-pressing four hundred pounds when you're eighty.”

Durkin laughed, thrilled by Eddie's threat.

“So don't be surprised,” Eddie warned, “when I sneak into your nursing home and push your wheelchair into traffic.”

Durkin slapped his thigh in delight. His need for combat was satisfied, and he was ready to be helpful. “It's been too long, Eddie,” he said. “Whadda you need from me?”

***

Down in the
Empire
's basement news library, Durkin lorded over a dimly lit world of unlabeled file drawers, stacks of newsprint and cobwebs. His AM radio was tuned to conservative talk radio, his desk littered with empty paper coffee cups and motorcycle magazines. Durkin had lost his left leg in an explosion in Vietnam when he was just nineteen, but he moved with grace on his crutches, like a hulking Minotaur through his labyrinth of file cabinets.

The file on the crimes and trial of Henry Bourque was more than thirty years old. In it, Durkin's predecessors had dutifully filed news clippings of every story published in
The Daily Empire
that had mentioned Henry Joseph Bourque.

“Is this an uncle of yours, or something?” Durkin asked.

Eddie didn't want to answer, and couldn't decide why. He trusted Durkin, who was risking his job by letting Eddie into his library. So why didn't Eddie want to admit the truth? Why was his first instinct to lie? He forced out the words, “Not an uncle. My brother.”

Durkin frowned. “But Ed, this guy's gotta be at least twenty years older than you.”

“Twenty years and a few months,” Eddie said. He sighed, then explained: “My folks married young and planned to have one kid—that was Henry. He was a genius—I've heard—and an athlete, with a room full of trophies. My parents were devastated when he got arrested, and they decided to—uh, well, they decided to start over. My mom was in her forties when I was born. They thought I'd be another Henry, except with a clean record.” He chuckled at the dark humor. “Didn't work out that way. Henry's conviction took too much out of them. They blamed themselves, of course, for raising him wrong, and then maybe they tried to be too perfect with me. I dunno—I've given up trying to analyze it. They split when I was a kid. Don't hear much from either of them anymore.”

“I wonder sometimes what makes a family,” Durkin said.

“So that's the legacy of Henry Bourque,” Eddie said. He tapped the file folder on Durkin's desk. “As well as whatever atrocities are in this file.”

Durkin studied Eddie's face a moment. He looked away, leaned against his desk, stroked his beard three times, and then said quietly, “When I got home from the war, I didn't see outside of my hospital room for three months.” He smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “Shrapnel fucked me up all over. I'm lucky I kept the leg that I got.” He slapped that leg. “What kept me going were the visits from my brother and from my fiancée.”

“I didn't know you were married.”

Durkin's brow wrinkled like a package of hot dogs. “I ain't,” he said. “Don't jump ahead. Anyway, the reason I
ain't
is because after my brother and fiancée visited me, they were visiting each other.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Eddie felt uneasy hearing of the heartbreak of someone so physically imposing as Durkin. He figured that Durkin would despise being the object of pity. Eddie asked, “Did you break his neck?”

Durkin shrugged. “I got over it.”

“What? You had to be furious.”

“Oh yeah? I had to? Says
who
?” He looked at Eddie. There was no answer, but Durkin let the question hang there a while. Then he said, “I don't gotta be anything I don't want. I didn't have to hate him.” He pushed himself suddenly away from the desk. “I'll be in the back. Scream when you're done.”

Eddie watched him clip-clop away. He had known Durkin for years, but was beginning to doubt that he had ever known him well.

Eddie turned his attention to the file folder on the desk. It was layered with a fine grit of paper dust. The file tab was labeled in red ink: “Solomon Co./armored car heist.” A list of cross-referenced subjects written across the front included: “Henry J. Bourque trial/sentencing.” There were other names printed there, too, which Eddie did not recognize.

It struck Eddie odd to see Henry's name on the file; a myth from his childhood had been proven true. Henry Bourque was real. It was like seeing the Loch Ness Monster at the aquarium.

The stories had been filed in chronological order, starting with the earliest:

ARMORED CAR ROBBED Three Guards Missing $600,000 in Cash Stolen

The
Daily Empire
had done a competent job on deadline covering the morning robbery. From the story, told in straightforward, declarative sentences, Eddie learned that the armored truck from Solomon Secure Transport Company had reported by radio that a broken-down car was blocking its path on a back road in Tyngsboro, the tiny town to the north, on the New Hampshire border.

That was the truck's last message.

When the transport company couldn't raise the driver by radio, it called the police.

The cops found the truck in a hayfield two hours later. The armored car's guards, locked in back with the money, had been under a policy to never open the truck in a robbery, but the truck was empty. The driver, the two guards and the money were gone. The paper reported the names of the missing men: Dumas, Forte and Nicolaidis.

The names had long been out of the news, and they meant nothing to Eddie.

His eyes lingered over one detail in the story—the police had found blood in the back of the truck.

Oh Jesus, Henry.

Henry's crimes had always been an abstract. Now they were becoming real. Eddie felt a nervous flutter. He suddenly noticed that Durkin kept the basement too warm. He unbuttoned his shirt collar.

God, I need coffee.

“Durkin? Hey Durk!”

He heard clip-clop, clip-clop in the darkness, and then Durkin appeared. “Done already?”

“You got any of that industrial waste you like to brew?”