C Corwin - Dig

Grant shushed me before I could explain the cocoa can scenario to Andrew. “You’ll let me know if you do come across a trophy, won’t you?”

Andrew assured him that he would.

“And you’ll keep this under your hat? Won’t talk to any reporters or nosy librarians or anybody else about this?”

Andrew assured him that he wouldn’t.

Grant glowered at him like an angry, Old Testament God. He shook his hand and started for the parking lot.

“That’s it?” I squeaked, hurrying after him.

Grant stopped. He put both of his big hands on my shoulders. He bent low. Until his eyes were six inches from mine. “I think your role in this investigation has come to an end, Mrs. Sprowls. You’ve rooted around and-”

I was furious. “Rooted around?”

“Admittedly not the most flattering imagery,” he said. “But you do get the point, don’t you? You’ve given us an intriguing lead. We appreciate your help. Now you’re going to wait patiently while we evaluate what we’ve got.”

“Evaluate? Heavens to Betsy! What you’ve got to do is dig!”

“One thing I am not going to do is dig,” he said. “Do you know the field day the media would have if I mucked up a scholarly archaeological dig and found nothing?”

“ The Herald-Union especially,” I conceded.

He wasn’t finished. “Or the money it would require? The man hours? Over a bit of adolescent braggadocio in an old letter? I’ve just tiptoed through one minefield with that Zuduski murder.”

I gave him my best Morgue Mama: “So you’re going to let two murders go unsolved because you’re a little gun shy?”

He was not the least bit intimidated. “And that’s the other thing. Gordon Sweet was shot. I’m supposed to be searching for a 9mm semiautomatic pistol. Not an old debate trophy.”

We walked in silence to our cars. But I wasn’t giving in just yet. I leaned against his door and wrapped my arms around the wall of shapeless blubber where my waist used to be. “Maybe there’s a way we can dig without actually digging,” I said.

He winced at the word we. But he listened.

Tuesday, July 3

I picked up the phone on the first ring. It was Dale Marabout. I swiveled toward the newsroom and wiggled my fingers at him. “Morning, Mr. M.”

“You think you can get away?” he asked. “Detective Grant is holding a meeedia conference at eleven.” Dale always pronounced media that way. In the old days when people still read newspapers, public officials held press conferences. Now that most people get their news from the bobble heads on TV, the powerful p-word has been replaced by the milk-toasty m-word, out of some warped sense of fairness I suppose. “Word is it’s about that little murder of yours,” Dale said. “I thought maybe you’d want to tag along.”

“I’ve got oodles to do-but I guess I can get away for a bit.”

Of course I could get away. I’d known about Grant’s media conference for two days. I’d come in two hours early that morning to get my clipping out of the way. And I pretty much knew Dale would invite me along. Although I was prepared to go by myself if he didn’t.

So at ten-thirty Dale and I met in the parking garage and drove down the hill to police headquarters in his old station wagon. We got Styrofoam cups of coffee-Hannawa’s finest never heard of a tea bag apparently-and found a pair of empty metal chairs in the Media Room. Tish Kiddle and her crew were there from TV21. So were a couple of the Cleveland stations. All in all about a dozen reporters.

Grant slipped in right at eleven with the department’s press officer. There was also a pair of burly uniformed officers. Dale pointed his chin at them. “In case Tish’s hairspray can turns out to be a bomb,” he whispered.

Grant fiddled with his notes. Took a test-sip from his glass of ice water. Slowly surveyed the reporters gathered before him. Scowled at me. Then he began the most impressive display of verbal gymnastics I’d heard since Lawrence tried to explain his serial infidelities to me: “I’m Chief Homicide Detective Grant. G.R.A.N.T. I’m going to talk to you this morning about our investigation into the Friday, March 3rd murder of Professor Gordon Sweet. Admittedly it has been some time since we last updated you on our progress, and I wanted to assure you and the public, and especially the Hemphill College community, that we have not ceased in our desire to give this case the highest investigative priority.”

He gave a couple minutes of background for the sake of the out-of-town reporters. Then he got down to the nitty-gritty: “In the weeks since the murder we have been pursuing a number of leads. And as of this morning, while we have made some progress, we unfortunately still have not identified a motive for the murder. Nor have we identified a probable suspect.”

He gave the reporters a few seconds to get all that down, then continued: “We have in recent days, however, discovered a possible link-and I emphasize possible-between Professor Sweet’s murder and the April 1957 murder of Hemphill College junior David Anthony Delarosa.” He spelled Delarosa for us and then gave a brief account of his murder.

Then he finished with this cryptic gem: “Specifically, we have identified an object that may or may not be helpful in satisfactorily resolving both murders. I cannot because of the ongoing nature of our investigation be more helpful in identifying the object we’ve identified. But I think I can say with some certainty that this object does not link the late professor to Mr. Delarosa’s murder as much as it links the murder of Mr. Delarosa to the late professor’s. Now if any of you have questions, I’ll try my best to be equally opaque.” Grant chuckled at his joke. The reporters only moaned.

I’m sure that Dale was the only reporter in the room familiar with both murders. He had the first question: “Is the object you’ve identified the missing blunt instrument used to bludgeon David Delarosa?”

Answered Detective Grant: “Unfortunately, I cannot confirm that for you at this time.”

Dale quickly followed up: “And when you said identified, does that mean you’ve found the object? Or merely identified it?”

Answered Grant: “Identified. I.D.E.N.T.I.F.I.E.D.”

“So you haven’t found it yet?” Dale asked, as other arms began to shoot up around him.

Grant answered with a question of his own: “When, Mr. Marabout, did I say we were looking for anything?” He pointed at Tish Kiddle before Dale could ask another question.

Tish came out of her front row chair like a Pop Tart out of a toaster. She held her pen and reporter’s notebook high, as if she was actually going to take notes. Her question-if that’s what you want to call it-was exactly what you’d expect: “You said you wanted to update us on your progress. But it sounds to me like you’re really updating us on your lack of progress. Can you possibly explain to the frightened citizens of this community why you haven’t found the killer yet?”

Dale made a U-turn in front of police headquarters and started back toward the paper. He began to pepper me with questions about the investigation: Did I know what the mysterious object was? Were they looking for it in the Wooster Pike landfill? Did the police finally have a suspect?

“It wasn’t my media conference,” I reminded him.

My reticence made him furious. “Jesus, Maddy! Just who are you working for anyway?”

“Truth, Justice and the American Way?”

He punched the steering wheel instead of my nose. “Never heard of them.”

That was Dale’s cute way of admitting I was right to keep my lip buttoned. And I couldn’t give him any of the inside poop I had, could I? “I know you’ve got a story to write,” I said as we pulled into the parking deck. “But Detective Grant wouldn’t confirm anything I told you anyway. I’d only be getting myself into hot water without helping you one damn bit.”