Ed Gorman - Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

I tried to imagine giving Deirdre Murdoch a strict order. It wasn’t easy. She just wasn’t a strict-order kind of girl.

“I’ll get the name of the driver and talk to him,” I said.

“The toughest part of this’ll be getting the names of enemies she made before she came here,” Spellman said. “She played a rough game. Even when you’re a high-priced call-girl—which in essence is what she was—it’s still a dangerous job. You run into some real nut jobs. They fall in love with you, they follow you, they get scared they’re going to be found out, they’re woman-haters deep down—you’ve got all these things in play.”

“And then you start shaking them down,” I said.

“Exactly,” Spellman said. “You start shaking them down. And that’s when they get really dangerous. You may have let something slip that makes you especially dangerous. It’s not just getting your time with her exposed—maybe she knows something that can send the guy to prison. He panics. He can’t spend the rest of his life worrying that every day might be the day she hands you over to some DA somewhere in order to save her own skin.”

“So he kills her,” I said. “And her brother, too. The killer figuring the brother probably knows his secret also.”

“Good Lord,” Ross Murdoch said. “If that’s the case, the killer could have been in town a couple of hours and then gone back home to wherever he lives.”

“It’s possible.”

“I still think it was local,” I said.

“You don’t, of course, have any proof of that?”

“No, I don’t. But being a good defense lawyer, I’ll make some up if you’ll give me a couple of minutes.”

“I love working with people who’re strictly local,” Spellman said. He sounded weary and long-suffering. I was beginning to suspect that deep down I didn’t like this guy. As in I’d like to run him down with my ragtop and then back over him a few times.

“And I love working with people who waste time overlooking the obvious.” I looked at Ross. “Karen Hastings and her brother were shaking you and your friends down for more money. And then they both wind up dead, one of them in your bomb shelter. Does any of this sound like somebody who just happened to be breezing through town?”

“He makes some good points,” Murdoch said.

Spellman was saved from responding because the phone rang.

Murdoch picked up, listened and said, “Thank you.” He hung up again. “I have a friend in the police department. His father worked for me for years. He just wanted to warn me that Sykes is on his way to arrest me.” He glanced at me and said, “I’m going to wait for him on the porch.”

“Why the hell would you do that?”

He would do that because he knew the kind of mischief Cliffie would be up to.

Three police cars arrived, sweeping up the drive. One had its red lights going. No siren, at least. Cliffie was restraining himself in his old age.

And then came the press. Cliffie had apparently invited every reporter in a six-state area. There was, and I do not exaggerate, a caravan of at least fifteen cars, station wagons and vans.

A low fog had set in. The reporters hit the front lawn like soldiers on a beach landing. They resembled monsters. The fog cut them off at the waist. They all moved toward a single place—the center of the front porch on which Ross Murdoch stood in his top coat with the brim of his grey dress hat pulled low over his face.

Murdoch knew how Cliffie operated. If Murdoch hadn’t been on his porch, Cliffie would’ve walked in a crouch up to the front door, his gun drawn, waving to his men to fan out, as if Murdoch was going to come charging through the front doors with a couple of grenade launchers and an armload of automatic weapons. Murdoch had just decided to deprive Cliffie of his usual fun. Cliffie would pistol-whip a nun if he thought there was a press camera nearby. And then explain why the eighty-two-year-old Sister was a true danger to the community.

Cliffie kept looking over his shoulder. There weren’t any live TV cameras, just three youths with bad complexions holding shaky film cameras. The film would be bathed in time for the ten o’clock news.

When he was sure that the cameras were rolling, Cliffie said, “Ross Murdoch I arrest you on the charge of first degree murder.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Cliffie, cut the cornball bullshit,” I said.

The cameras swung to me. “He knows he’s being arrested. He’s been standing here for fifteen minutes waiting for you to arrest him. And he’s obviously going to go along peacefully. And he has nothing to say at this point except that these charges are ridiculous, as does his lawyer, the famous Richard Spellman from Chicago.” I nodded to Spellman. “Mr. Spellman, if you would.”

This was all happening too quickly for Cliffie. He was getting whiplash from gaping around so much. All he knew for sure was that he wasn’t the center of attention any more. And here he’d dressed up so well for the occasion, too. Cliffie secretly thinks he’s Glenn Ford. I can’t put that down, because I secretly think I’m Robert Ryan. Cliffie’s too chunky and ugly to be Ford and as I’ve remarked elsewhere, except for the height, the good looks, the voice and manly poise, I’m pretty much a dead ringer for Robert Ryan.

Cliffie stood hip-cocked with his hand resting on the butt of his gun. The way he sneered at Spellman made me think Spellman wasn’t such a bad sort, after all.

“There’s no doubt that Mr. Murdoch has done some things that he truly regrets,” Spellman said to the battery of microphones pointed at him. And that was a good strategy. Get the kept-woman problem out of the way up front. “He’s a decent man and admits that he feels shame for some of his conduct and for the grief he’s brought to his family. His days as a public man are over. He’s already stepped out of the race for governor.

“But what we’re talking about here is an error—and a major one—in moral judgment. But we are not—and let me repeat are not — talking about murder. He did not murder Karen Hastings nor did he have anything to do with putting her body in his bomb shelter. It is clear to me that the real killer managed to secrete the body inside Mr. Murdoch’s home. I have no idea how this happened. But with the help of my investigators—and one of your own local investigators, Mr. Sam McCain, who has already been extremely helpful to our investigation—we’re going to clear Mr. Murdoch’s name long before this matter is brought to trial. And that’s a promise.”

He had no more paused for breath than the reporters began shouting questions at him.

“The blonde woman in the blue hat asked me what about the other three men involved in this. And I can’t speak to that. I haven’t been asked to represent them and I’d imagine they’ll each want their own lawyers—if there are even any charges. Again, the arrangement they had with the Hastings woman was morally indefensible but it doesn’t seem to me that any laws were broken. Police Chief Sykes has chosen to arrest my client, and it’s my client I’m concerned about. I’m sure Chief Sykes would be happy to answer your questions.”

I was standing next to Spellman. When the cameras and microphones swooped over to Cliffie, Spellman said, “Cliffie’ll probably tell them about the time he had a gunfight with Jesse James.” He looked at all the reporters. “This guy should be a campaign manager. He can really get the press to turn out.” Then he smiled at me. “Sorry we got off to a bad start inside. I can be a bit of a prima donna. But the next time I express my true and profound love for myself and all my sage opinions, remind me that I grew up in Groverton, Illinois, population eight hundred and seventy-two. That always keeps me humble.”