Ed McBain - Fiddlers

‘Everybody loved him, right?’

‘I don’t know about that. But I’ve heard nothing but praise from our parishioners.’

‘Some of them still remember him, is that it?’

‘Oh yes. He was a beloved leader.’

‘Like I said. Everybody loved him.’

‘Am I detecting a mocking tone here?’ Father Nealy asked. He was no longer smiling.

‘No, you’re detecting a detective investigating the murder of somebody everybody loved.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Father Nealy said. ‘Obviously, someone didn’t love him.’

‘Ah yes,’ Ollie said. ‘But you wouldn’t know of any friction back then when he was a priest here.’

‘As I said, I haven’t heard of any.’

‘Why’d he leave here for St. Ignatius, anyway?’

‘Priests are moved from one parish to another all the time,’ Father Nealy said. ‘The diocese sends us wherever we’re needed to do the Lord’s work.’

‘Of course,’ Ollie said, thinking, The Lord’s work, what total bullshit. ‘Well, thanks for your time, Father,’ he said. ‘If you can think of anyone who might’ve had mischief on his mind, give me a call, okay? Meanwhile, may God bless you and keep you,’ he said, and shook hands with the priest and walked out.

He came down the long corridor that led through the sacristy, lined with clear leaded windows streaming morning sunlight, and then back to the church proper. Inside the church, the same holy lunatics were scattered in the pews, mumbling their prayers, the same guy was behind the altar, polishing brass. He spotted Ollie the moment he came through the door into the church, almost as if he’d been waiting for him to come back.

‘Detective?’ he said.

Ollie turned, went to him.

‘Are you investigating?’ the man whispered.

Eyes wide and frightened.

‘Why?’ Ollie asked. “What do you know?’

‘Jerry!’

A woman’s voice.

Ollie turned to where a redhead going ugly gray was striding down the side aisle of the church like a witch who’d lost her broomstick.

‘Leave my brother alone!’ she shouted, startling the holy at prayer, and took Jerry by the hand, and dragged him away from the altar.

But this was Oliver Wendell Weeks she was dealing with here.

As brother and sister came out of the church, Ollie was right behind them.

* * * *

Kling was beginning to sound to Brown like one of those tormented private eyes or rogue cops he read about in seven-dollar paperbacks that used to be dime novels that used to be penny dreadfuls. White guys mostly who went around moaning and groaning and tearing out their hair about everything but what was supposed to be their work. Their work here was supposed to be finding out who had put two bullets in Professor Christine Langston’s face, plus some other faces as well.

Instead, he was telling Brown that he’d been to bed with a girl named Sadie Harris this past Friday night -another black girl, no less - whom he hadn’t yet called back, but he hadn’t called Sharyn again, either, and now he was asking Brown his advice on what he should do because he thought he might already be in love with this Sadie Harris, who was a librarian in Riverhead. Tell the truth, Brown didn’t care whether he called Sadie or Sharyn, or went to bed with either or both of them, or even with Britney Spears in the window of Harrods department store in London, England. Kling’s troubles with women - black women, no less - were of minor consequence to the real issue at hand, which happened to be murder. Murders. Plural. Five of them so far, and maybe still counting.

Of major consequence and immediate concern was Warren G. Harding High School, where a twenty-three-year-old teacher named Christine Langston had long ago given an eighteen-year-old boy a C when he’d desperately needed an A to keep him out of the Army.

What they wanted to know was the name of that boy.

But all of this was all so very long ago and very far away.

What they were talking about here was more than forty years ago. Guy would have to be in his late fifties by now. This whole damn case was buried in ancient history.

What they learned at Harding High at twelve noon that Monday was that no one currently teaching there - no one - had been teaching there back then when Christine was promising ‘A’s and handing out ‘C’s instead. Nor had anyone employed in the Clerical Office today been working at the school back then.

So…

Either they had to admit they’d reached a dead end on the professor’s murder…

Or else they could try some other means - God knew what - of tracking down each and every member of the graduating class back then, and all of the teachers who’d been at Harding when Christine was but a mere twenty-three, in her green and salad days, and learning how to trade grades for apparently scarce sex.

Fat Chance Department, both cops thought.

They headed back to the squadroom to discuss it with the Loot, who wasn’t in such a good mood himself just then.

* * * *

What goes in must come out.

What goes up must come down.

These are things you learn after years of dedicated police work.

Jerry and his sister, the graying redheaded witch, had gone into the building at 831 Barber Street at twelve-oh-seven this afternoon, and it was now twenty to one, and neither one of them had yet come out. Ollie felt certain of three things.

One: Jerry’s elevator wasn’t reaching the top floor; he was what the police in this city categorized as an EDP, for Emotionally Disturbed Person.

Two: Jerry believed the church was under investigation for something or other.

Three: Jerry’s sister didn’t want him talking to cops.

Which made talking to him seem all the more imperative.

Ollie supposed he could knock on a few doors, ask a few questions, and zero in on which apartment Jerry and his sister lived in. But then he would have to question Jerry in the presence of the harridan sister, and he would prefer not having to do that; he was still afraid of the wicked witch in The Wizard of Oz, and he’d seen that movie only on television. So he waited across the street from their building: What goes in must come out; what goes up must come down.

Meanwhile, all he could do was think about Patricia Gomez. Should he change their date from Saturday night to Sunday morning? Andy Parker said that a cozy little Saturday night dinner at home would set off a real Panty Block alarm. So maybe he should call her and change it to a Sunday brunch if indeed he was planning on getting in her pants, which he guessed he was, else why was he thinking such evil thoughts about the girl, and why was there a sudden erection in his own pants right this very minute?

Oh well.

It also bothered him that Andy Parker thought he was losing his essential Ollie-ness, which he certainly did not wish to do; he liked himself too much. Then again, Patricia seemed to like him a lot, too. Especially now that he’d lost ten pounds. So, when you thought about it, what would be so wrong about two consensual, non-homosexual human beings joining together for some fine and fancy Saturday night - oops.

Here they came.

Walking out of their building together, Jerry and his sister with her graying red hair flying around her head like a halo of bats.

* * * *

Alicia Hendricks’s old neighborhood was beginning to feel like home to Parker and Genero. They even stopped in at Rocco’s for lunch that Monday, where they had the clams Posillipo and another chat with Geoffrey Lucantonio, who was eager to tell them more about his derring-do with the then-fifteen-year-old Alicia, but they opted for other more pertinent information.

They were here in the Laurelwood section of Riverhead again, trying to track down any of Alicia’s former classmates at Warren G. Harding High, which the Commish might have considered fiddling around but which nonetheless had been her last educational venue before she sailed off into the wider world of waitressing, manicuring, sales repping, and eventual dope-dealing. Geoffrey told them that not many of Harding’s alumni still lived in the old hood. Although the foundation stones were still here -