Bryan Gruley - The Skeleton Box

“Impressive.”

“Emile Waterstradt. Saint Robert Bellarmine. Otsego Lake. Glenfiddich.”

“Glenfiddich?”

“Scotch. A bottle a day. Waterstradt finally left the priesthood in his shame. I found him living in an apartment above a bar in Hillman.”

“How do you spell Waterstradt?” I said.

“He’s dead. But if he were still alive, perhaps he would tell you, as he told me, that my grandfather didn’t kill the nun, but that he did see what he believed to be the remains of the unfortunate nun.”

“Where?”

“In a crawl space beneath the old church. They were about to start building the lovely new church, and Grandpa was cleaning things up. He found her remains beneath a pile of dismantled pews. At first he thought it was an animal. But there were shreds of cloth.”

“Her habit.”

“Correct.”

“And he told the priest.”

“The charming Father Nilus, yes. As for the ‘wrong guy,’ after Rupert Calloway was released on the pretense that he had acted in self-defense, he subsequently moved north and enjoyed splendid employment at a home for retired priests on Lake Superior. He mowed the lawn and plowed the walks and in return received room and board and the convenience of a whorehouse in Ishpeming.”

“Rupert Calloway is-”

“The man who cut my grandfather’s throat. He died in ninety-seven. Unfortunately I didn’t find him in time to ask him a question or two.”

“You’re saying someone arranged for this Calloway guy to kill your grandfather?”

“I’m not saying it. Father Waterstradt said it, while crying like a child into his coffee cup of single malt. He and Nilus were close.”

“Entertaining story. But you didn’t go to the authorities.”

“What did the authorities say happened to the nun, Mr. Carpenter?”

“Your grandfather dumped her in Torch Lake.”

“But her body never washed up.”

“Sometimes bodies don’t wash up in that lake,” I said. “Sometimes boats don’t.”

Breck smiled. “I’ve heard all about the underground tunnels that suck things out to Lake Michigan.”

“Why should I believe a man who helped the church defend pedophiles?”

“Do not judge lest you be judged.”

“Enough with the biblical claptrap.”

“Believe what you like,” he said. “I saved most of those men from much harsher treatment at the hands of my clients.”

“Eagan, MacDonald and Browne, representing the archdiocese.”

“Indeed. To say they were ruthless would be an understatement of the first rank. My research, which the lawyers put on the record quite selectively, didn’t always help the archdiocese’s case. So they were forced to settle on less-than-palatable terms, at least financially. The men were compensated handsomely, and they went on with their lives.”

“You’re a hero. Congratulations.”

The door opened. Skip Catledge ducked in. “Five minutes,” he said.

The door closed. Breck said, “You’ve no doubt noticed that my name didn’t show up on any of these sex abuse cases until the early nineties, after my mother died.”

“So that’s why you got close to the church, to find out what happened to your grandfather.”

“The law firm would be careful, of course, with an outside contractor like me. But I made a few friends, learned a few things.”

“Like, they’re buying up land on the lake.”

“So you have done some homework. After I learned about the first purchases, last summer, I focused my research. And when I heard what they were offering for the Edwards parcels”-Tatch’s property-“I decided it was time to act.”

If only Tatch had taken the money and sold his land, maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe Mrs. B would be at Mom’s house now, drinking rose over a game of Yahtzee.

“Have you enjoyed your little messianic charade?” I said.

“It is nothing compared to your colleague’s.”

“My collegue?”

“I’m sure Whistler hasn’t mentioned that he came to me a few years ago to ask about my grandfather. He said he was researching a story.”

“Bullshit.”

“He came with a woman. It was a hot summer day and I had a window open. I could hear them out in the parking lot, bickering. Then I heard tires screeching and he came in alone.”

A woman? “How did he find you?” I said.

“My mother’s name was in the papers when my grandfather died.”

Of course. That’s how I had made the connection. I felt a little sick. When Breck had told me outside the drain commission meeting that I was being “led astray,” I hadn’t thought he was referring to Whistler.

“But how would Whistler have known there was a story?” I said.

“He’s fifty-six. Born in June 1943. And yet his father, supposedly one Edgar Whistler, was killed in April 1942 at Bataan. Which doesn’t add up. But if little Lucas was born in one town-let’s say Clare, an hour away, but another world back then-and his mother moved him back to Starvation as a baby, people there wouldn’t doubt he was the son of the fallen soldier.”

“But”-I hesitated, uncertain of the answer-“then he moved away?”

“To Allen Park. His mother was a night janitor at Superior Motors. But Whistler had to help support her. By the way, this is all publicly available information. I’m surprised you don’t know it. Are you surprised you don’t know it, Mr. Carpenter?”

Surprised wasn’t the word. “I don’t need to know the entire history of my colleagues.”

“I see,” Breck said. “It’s funny. My contacts at the law firm called him Luke Chiseler. He knows more about any of this than anybody-or almost anybody. And he put a price on it.”

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“Mr. Whistler called it a book deal.”

“And?”

The shift room door opened again. Catledge stepped in.

“And… if you want to hear more, you should be at my arraignment tomorrow. It should be interesting. I dearly hope the entire town shows up.”

“Why Tex? What’s he have to do with this?”

“What better way to punish this town?” Breck said, then briefly lowered his eyes. “I am sorry about his injury. That was not intended.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” I said.

“In case I don’t get a fair trial.”

“Why? You think you’re going to follow in your grandfather’s footsteps?”

“Time’s up,” Catledge said.

Breck rose. “Ask Father Reilly.”

I didn’t want to believe Breck.

Whistler didn’t answer when I called him from my truck. I left a message, trying to sound nonchalant, hoping he was with Tawny Jane.

He was not.

Tawny Jane was finishing a stand-up in front of the sheriff’s department when I rolled up. Other reporters milled around in the shadows outside the vestibule, deciding where to go for beers after calling in their stories. Dingus was gone. D’Alessio, who apparently had been released, stood off to one side, waiting for someone to interview him.

I didn’t see Whistler or his Toronado. He had said he would be going to the cop shop, and I couldn’t imagine he’d miss a briefing on this story. But maybe he’d thought I would babysit that. Maybe he was already at the Pilot, posting something online.

The wind kept blowing Tawny Jane’s hair across her face, and she kept pulling it away with the hand that wasn’t holding the microphone. I eased my window down to hear.

“… will be arraigned tomorrow morning, a major turn of events in the spicy drama here in Starvation Lake, a quaint little town, which has seen its share of drama in the past. Channel Eight will be broadcasting live tomorrow from the Pine County Courthouse as Wylie Ezra Breck is arraigned before Judge Horace Gallagher…”