Stone Cold Dead (49 page)

“And that’s when Officer Palumbo came across him.”

“Missed him dumping the body in the river by a couple minutes, according to Brossard.”

We fell silent for a while, both lost in melancholy thoughts or hopeless disgust for all mankind. Finally, Frank spoke.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he said. “How did you figure out that Darleen left her gum under the seat?”

“It came to me in a dream. Well, sort of,” I said. “I’d been racking my brain, reviewing the timeline, and thinking of everything I knew about Darleen, including my one meeting with her. Over and over, I went back to that time she’d helped me in the girls’ room at the basketball game, trying to remember every last detail. Then, in the calm of my dream, she was there, smiling at me with the braces and the black gum. Everyone said she was always chewing that black gum: her teachers, her friends, even her mother. And when she was done with it, she would stick it wherever was handy–under desks, mostly. Even under the shelf in her locker. It just occurred to me in a moment of clarity that she was just as likely as not to be chewing gum when Brossard picked her up. It was a guess.”

Frank whistled. “Damn good guess, Ellie.”

“What’s the DA’s plan?” I asked, blushing a bit, but delighting in his praise nonetheless.

“He’s thinking voluntary manslaughter, attempted rape, and battery. Probably a few more. He’s working on it.”

“And Dick Metzger?”

Frank shook his head. “Nothing for now. He denies it, and there’s no witness, no victim to level an accusation.”

“Can’t you bash his head into the car door again?”

He smiled sadly, then turned serious. “Listen, Ellie, about Metzger. Brossard says he never called your house.”

“I see. But still no proof to charge Metzger?”

“I’m afraid not. Tell you what, though. I’m going to have one of my boys watch your house for a while.”

“I don’t need babysitting, Frank.”

“Come on, don’t be a hero. Stan will sleep on the landing outside your door. He wants to.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it.”

I wrote a long piece for a special Thursday morning edition, outlining the arrest of, and the evidence against, Louis Brossard. I wrote a second article on the Geraldine Duffy disappearance. Earlier in the week, on Monday, my Girl Friday, Norma, had requested everything the
Hudson Star-Register
had on the St. Winifred girl’s disappearance, and Wednesday afternoon a box of clippings arrived at the office to my attention. I summarized the details of the case, tying it up with a neat bow and Brossard’s confession. According to Frank, Brossard had indeed sent the boy away first. An hour later, Geraldine Duffy was dead, raped and strangled, buried near the railroad tracks along the Hudson River. Again, the blame went to Satan, who used Brossard as the instrument of his evil. When I reached the Columbia County DA by telephone, he promised a first-degree murder charge. And if Satan didn’t appear to stand trial, Brossard would have to take the rap himself.

I dropped my stories off at the office, along with film of Brossard’s car and the gum under the seat. Charlie worked up the front page and selected the photos, then sent them off to Composition, who were working late for the special edition. I was drained. The long hours, lack of sleep, and emotional beatings I’d endured over the past three weeks had taken their toll. I could barely summon the energy to switch some new keys on George Walsh’s typewriter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FRIDAY, JANUARY 20, 1961

We sat in the City Room Friday morning, watching the Kennedy inauguration on the television, as the torch was passed to a new generation of Americans, to echo the words of the new president. I felt inspired and full of hope as Kennedy stood there in his morning coat, hatless in the frigid cold, and told the nation that “we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.” He moved me when he called upon our fellow citizens of the world to work together for the freedom of man, and I truly believed we were on the cusp of a new era. A better era.

Then I went home, put on a black wool dress and gloves, and drove to the Wilson Funeral Home in the Town of Glen. I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome from the Metzgers, but that couldn’t be helped. I intended to pay my respects to Darleen Hicks.

The funeral parlor was a large, white clapboard colonial house that sat on the shoulder of Route 161. Its paint was cracked and peeling as if it had been baked and frozen again and again for decades. Which it had. There was a small gravel parking area behind the house with a handful of cars and trucks. I noticed Dick Metzger’s green Ford pickup parked near the back of the lot. I climbed out of my warm car and slipped inside the vestibule of the funeral home. A heavy velvet curtain hung half open, and I could see the simple casket and several mourners inside. It was cold, so I kept my coat on and entered.

Dick Metzger saw me, and I fancy his nostrils flared. I took a seat in one of the folding chairs and bowed my head. I recognized Winnie Terwilliger, the lady I’d met at the Metzger farm after Darleen’s body had been found. The Sloans were also there, and a few other locals, too. Susan, Carol, and Linda sat together, and I noticed Ted Jurczyk right behind them, accompanied by Coach Mahoney. Clarence Endicott, principal of the junior high school, had come. Probably the last place he wanted to be, but realistically he had no other choice. Mrs. Nolan, Darleen’s former English teacher, sat alone off to the side, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief.

Joey Figlio was nowhere to be seen. I figured he was probably locked up at Fulton, but I also thought he was the type to disdain formal ceremonies like this one. He was more likely to grieve on his own. Or try to kill someone who’d hurt Darleen.

No Ted Russell. Perhaps that was for the best; the tasteful, if cowardly, thing to do.

“Excuse me, miss,” came a whispered voice in my ear after I’d been sitting there for several minutes. I looked up to see a man in his fifties, poorly shaven, with a black overcoat and tie.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, miss, but the family would like you to leave.”

“I understand,” I said, rising from my chair. I tried to make eye contact with Irene Metzger, but she was weeping into a handkerchief and not looking my way. I felt certain that she was avoiding me on purpose. And I knew that I would never see her again. My role in Irene Metzger’s life had played out, and I’d unwittingly caused the poor woman even more sorrow than she’d expected. She’d known her daughter was gone, but never imagined that she’d lose the man she loved as well.

Her husband, on the other hand, was staring directly into my eyes with his lizard gaze, black eye and all, courtesy of the sheriff. He had demanded that I be thrown out, but I sensed he was daring me to say something, to approach them, anything, just so he could beat me senseless or choke the life out of me. Out of respect for the dead, I said nothing. But Dick Metzger wasn’t satisfied with my quiet departure. He rose to his feet and hollered for me to get out, using the foulest language I’d ever heard outside a navy freighter. I resisted the temptation to answer back, determined that Darleen’s wake should not become a circus. I turned slowly and walked out trying to maintain my dignity as all eyes watched me go. It’s not easy to hold your head high when someone calls you a whore at a wake. But I did.

The New Holland Bucks tipped off in Johnstown at eight. Ted Jurczyk played the finest game of his short career, scoring thirty-two points with ten assists and five steals. He was masterful, and New Holland won going away, 76–58. I congratulated him after the game, and he smiled.

“One last question for my profile, Ted,” I said. He nodded. “How do you do it? How do you manage to play so beautifully on such a sad day?”

He wiped his sweaty brow with a towel and sighed. “It’s hard,” he said. “Until the whistle blows. Just like my butterflies, everything else disappears. My nerves, Darleen, Patricia’s leg braces, my mom . . . The court is a sanctuary for me. The most peaceful place on earth.”

I knew I would end my feature with that line.

“You showed a lot of courage this afternoon at the funeral parlor,” he said. “Gosh, I admire you, Miss Stone.”

Outside the gym, I fumbled for my keys in the cold. The door nearly wouldn’t open, again the residual effect of the dunking the poor car had taken in Winandauga Lake. I drove off, heading for the office to finish my story on Ted and to write the summary of the game as well. I wanted to be free of work responsibilities the next day. There was my big date with Mike Palumbo, after all.

I was cruising east along Route 67, through the desolate farm country between Johnstown and New Holland, when I first noticed the thumping of my right rear tire. A flat, damn it. I pulled over to the shoulder and cursed my bad luck. It was bitterly cold, but the tire needed to be changed.

I climbed out, nearly breathless from the frozen air, and retrieved the jack and spare from the trunk. Positioning the jack carefully, I began to crank it up. A motorist slowed and pulled over to give me a hand. That was welcome. I stared back into the burning headlights behind me, squinting to see. Why didn’t the idiot switch them off? Then he did, and I dropped the tire iron and ran.

I raced for my life as I sensed the man gaining on me. My legs felt leaden, and it seemed the harder I pushed, the slower and more palsied my movements became. It was like running in water. The icy air seared my throat and lungs, but I couldn’t stop, I knew that much. The steps drew closer, terrifyingly near, and I could hear his breath and the pounding of his boots behind me.

Dick Metzger corralled me after about thirty yards, grabbing me by the neck and nearly yanking me off my feet. He dragged me back to his truck as I kicked and screamed, losing both my shoes, but we were in the middle of nowhere, and no one heard. Once we reached his pickup, perhaps tiring of my resistance, he reared back and plowed his fist into my face. I saw stars. I went limp, and he opened the tailgate and threw me into the flatbed. I wanted to climb over the side immediately, but I couldn’t move; my head was still swimming from his punch. He seized my ankles and pulled me into position atop a heavy tarpaulin, which, to my horror, he began rolling up on me like a cocoon. He turned me over and over until I was trapped tight, rendered immobile and unable to escape. My head hurt, but my senses returned. There was not much air, and I feared I would be smothered if I continued to struggle. Somehow, even in that desperate moment, I couldn’t shake the image of an old cartoon from the
New Yorker
. Two men in pith helmets up to their shoulders in quicksand, and one says to the other, “Quicksand or not, Barclay, I’ve half a mind to struggle.” I tried to steady my breath and think and, of course, resist the urge to struggle. Wrapped in the tarp, I heard Metzger climb into the cab and drive off.

It was a cold, bumpy ride, and I rolled from side to side whenever the truck turned sharply. From time to time, I yelled for help, but my screams were suffocated by the heavy, foul-smelling canvas. I doubted there was anyone near to hear me anyway. We drove for about thirty minutes, and I thought he intended to freeze me to death. I tried to think of a way to extricate myself from the tightly wrapped tarpaulin but realized that the only chance I had was to roll, and there wasn’t enough space in the flatbed to unravel the canvas.

Eventually we slowed down. I could feel the truck bouncing over an unpaved surface; I had still no idea where he was taking me. Then he stopped and switched off the engine. The night was silent, but my heavy breathing resounded under the tarpaulin, and the close cover and terror of anticipation were exacerbated by a growing claustrophobia. I waited on my side for him to come for me. I listened, wondering where he was. What was he doing?

I intended to scream as soon as he returned and freed me, but in that moment, I just listened. Finally, after three or four agonizing minutes, I heard his footsteps approach, his boots crunching over the frozen ground. I have never experienced such abject panic. I screamed and rolled and writhed on the flatbed of the pickup. I can’t exactly say my life passed before my eyes, but there were flashes of images from my youth. I saw a pair of patent leather shoes and then a schoolbook. Elijah’s guitar. My father’s back and my mother’s face, smiling, all as I thrashed. Then the tarpaulin was peeled away, and I loosed a cry with all my might and scratched and spat and kicked as if my life depended on it. And it did.