Bryan Gruley: The Skeleton Box

Gallagher looked at Whistler and Breck and Darlene. He picked up his gavel and stood. “In my chambers,” he said. “Ms. Prosecutor, Sheriff Aho, Deputy Esper. All of you. Bring Mr. Breck and Whistler, please, and Medical Examiner Schriver.” He pointed his gavel at me. “Augustus Carpenter,” he said. “And Beatrice? You, too.” He rapped once more. “This court is in recess.”

The blotter on Judge Gallagher’s L-shaped mahogany desk was framed in leather the color of blackberries. Gallagher pointed at it and said, “Remove the box from the plastic and place it here, please.” Catledge did. The judge fluffed the back of his robe and descended into a leather-backed chair. “You may uncuff these men, Deputy.”

I tried to get Whistler’s attention as Catledge removed his cuffs, but he kept his eyes down, rubbing first his wrists and then his pinkie ring. I recalled picking the ring up off his desk, how heavy it seemed, and the initials engraved inside: EJPW. Elizabeth Josephine Pound Whistler. Bitsy. His mother.

He sat alongside Breck, facing the judge. Dingus stood behind them. Repelmaus stood with the bailiff. I sat with Mom on Gallagher’s left, while Eileen, Darlene, and Doc Joe sat in a semicircle across from us. I finally caught Darlene’s eye. She didn’t smile, but she winked, and I thought maybe I’d done something right.

The judge opened a desk drawer and produced a package of latex gloves. He unwrapped it and pulled the gloves on. “Now,” he said, looking around the room, “I plan to take a look at what is inside this box. Unless there’s an objection.”

“I must respectfully object, Your Honor,” Eileen Martin said. “This risks contaminating what could be vital evidence.”

“Really, Ms. Martin? How do you know what’s in here? It could be nothing.”

“But Your Honor, could we at least have some photographs-”

“Overruled.”

Dingus spoke. “Your Honor, don’t you think-that is, wouldn’t you prefer, that the police handle the investigation and we’ll come back to you-”

“With what? Yet another suspect?” Gallagher said. “You suspended the only deputy who’s actually gotten anything done on this case, is that right?”

“Your Honor, the deputy did not follow-”

“You came into my courtroom this morning to charge this man”-he pointed at Breck-“with some very serious crimes, and an hour later we’re sitting here with another man whom I would wager you plan to charge as well, am I right, Sheriff?”

Dingus shifted his bulk, folded his arms. “No objection, Your Honor.”

“Thank you. Now, Mr. Regis?” Gallagher said. “I’ll allow you to witness this, so long as you tell me you promise to behave, which is to say, keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Repelmaus cleared his throat and showed the judge a cell phone he’d pulled out of his jacket pocket. “Although it’s my duty to inform you that you may soon be getting a fax from Judge Wallace in Detroit.”

“Federal judge Joseph Peter Wallace? A good man. Not much of a golfer, but a good man.”

“Yes sir. My client has asked Judge Wallace for a temporary restraining-”

“No,” Gallagher said, clapping his hands together. “Not another word.”

“-order to halt this ad hoc proceeding and-”

“I’m sorry,” the judge shouted over Repelmaus, “I haven’t heard a word you said and if you speak another, Judge Wallace will have to post your bail.”

Repelmaus pursed his lips.

Gallagher turned back to the box. Dirt was caked around its hinges, and it was tall enough that all we could see of the judge was his head and the few stray tufts of silver the chemo had spared. He motioned to Doc Joe. “Could you come over here?” Doc Joe came around behind the judge. Gallagher handed the coroner a pair of latex gloves, then turned to Whistler. “Mr. Whistler,” he said, “can you tell us why you’re here?”

“I demand a lawyer, Your Honor.”

“Well, then, Mr. Breck?” Gallagher said. “Can you tell me why Mr. Whistler is here?”

A fax machine resting on a credenza behind Gallagher sputtered to life, chugging from hum to clatter as it began spitting out a page.

“Pardon me,” Gallagher said, turning to Doc Joe. “It’s impossible to conduct a conversation with that thing clunking along.” Doc Joe reached behind the credenza and yanked a plug from its socket. The machine went silent.

“Judge, you can’t be serious,” Repelmaus said.

“Much better,” Gallagher said. “Mr. Breck?”

Breck looked at Whistler. “He obviously made a mistake,” Breck said. “He must have worried that my arrest would lead to his, and he panicked and went looking for that”-he nodded toward the box on the judge’s desk-“and somebody figured it out.”

Darlene and me, I thought. Finally.

“And why would Mr. Whistler care about what’s in this box?”

Breck made a show of turning to look at Repelmaus. “Because he thought it might be worth a lot of money to the archdiocese. Like maybe five million dollars.”

I looked at Whistler, who appeared ready to explode, his cheeks crimson, his pinkie ring tap-tap-tapping on his chair arm. I wanted to hear from him.

“Not only that,” I interjected, “but he and his partner, one Beverly Taggart, sought to get women in town to help them with their little extortion plot under the guise of writing a history of St. Valentine’s Church.”

Whistler took the bait. “It wasn’t a ‘guise,’” he said.

“So, Mr. Whistler, you do want to speak,” Gallagher said. “What would this history of yours say?”

Whistler looked around at his audience. He couldn’t help himself. “Everything Breck says about the church framing his grandfather is true,” he said.

“Preposterous,” Repelmaus said.

“They had to frame somebody because Father Nilus Moreau had killed Sister Cordelia with his bare hands and buried her beneath the old church. Later he moved the bones so they could build the new church.”

“How do you know this, Mr. Whistler?” Gallagher said.

“My mother knew Nilus. Only too well.”

“Why wouldn’t the archdiocese just hand Nilus over to the authorities and wash their hands of him?”

“It was too late for that,” I said. “They were already covering up years of Nilus screwing his parishioners.”

“Your Honor,” Repelmaus pleaded.

“If the murder of a nun came out, everything would come out,” I said. “The archdiocese couldn’t help but look complicit, and who knows what else.” I looked at Repelmaus. “Your pal Reilly didn’t tell you about the paternity suits, Regis?”

“Judge,” he said, “this man has zero credibility as a journalist. Why is he even in here? What kind of crazy court is this?”

My mother jumped up. “Don’t you dare say that about my son.”

“Hush, all of you,” Gallagher said. “Beatrice, please, sit.”

“God damn you to hell, if he hasn’t already,” she told Repelmaus. She sat.

“Maybe Sheriff Aho should hire your son, Bea,” Gallagher said.

“Hah,” Whistler said. “He’s clueless.”

“Enough out of you,” Gallagher said. Then, to Repelmaus, “This is not a courtroom, sir, this is my chambers. There is no jury. The rules of evidence do not apply. But since you’re so keen on having the facts correct, please tell us: Did Mr. Whistler endeavor to extort money from the archdiocese?”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor, I would have to claim attorney-client privilege.”

“Ah. Maybe Mr. Whistler isn’t the only one with something to hide.” He waited for a reply, but Repelmaus had none. “All right, let’s see what could be worth the risks you people have taken.”