Bryan Gruley - The Hanging Tree

Now in my side-view mirror I saw Sheriff Dingus Aho approaching, alone. It wasn’t like Dingus to be out on patrol; he had to have been looking for me. I shut off the truck, opened the door, and stepped out. A fluorescent lamp on the back of the rink threw diffuse light across the snow-packed asphalt. Dingus walked into it, arms folded across his chest.

“Can this wait?” I said. “I’ve got to be on the ice in ten minutes.”

“Can’t go in this way,” Dingus said. “The Zamboni area is still off-limits.”

“Oh. OK, I’ll walk around front. Sorry.”

“What are you parking back here for anyway?”

“Got in the habit when I was playing goalie. Had to do with some superstition I’ve long forgotten.”

I grabbed my bag and sticks out of the back of my truck. “You hauling gasoline?” Dingus said.

“Soupy ran out the other day and I spilled some giving him a hand.”

“Uh-huh.” He stepped between me and the rink. “So how was your trip to Detroit? Find out anything?”

I had debated while driving back exactly what I could or would tell Dingus and Darlene. I didn’t have a paper for four days and I had serious doubts about what, if anything, the publisher would allow the Pilot to print. Journalists weren’t supposed to be snitches for cops. But Dingus had pointed me to Vend. And Darlene, well, hell, Darlene was my girlfriend. One of them could probably get to the Sarnia police. I decided I wanted Darlene to hear about that first.

“Not much that I can say anything about,” I told Dingus. “I’ve got to make some calls in the morning.”

His frown bunched his handlebar up beneath his nose.

“I wouldn’t be holding out on me, son. Your little story about Soupy is believable, but bullpuckey. My sheriff friends in Wayne County gave me a call. You were seen going into a house this morning that later went up in flames.”

Trixie, I thought. Would she have been implicated too?

“I am not an arsonist, Dingus.”

He sniffed at the air. “If you say so.”

“Gracie was murdered, all right,” I said. “But you knew that.”

“By whom?”

I had been sure that Vend was responsible for Gracie’s death. Until I had heard about Haskell. It could have been Vend, or Haskell, or both. Gracie’s videotapes-and whatever other evidence she had hidden away-could have put them out of business and in jail. I thought of the girl in Sarnia. What had she known and how had she threatened these men?

What did I really know? That Gracie had become ensnared, probably by Haskell, in a prostitution ring that included among its specialties asphyxiation for wealthy gentlemen. That Gracie had apparently tried to escape that life and make a saner one of her own while struggling against the knowledge that she had given up a child. That both Haskell and Vend could have had motives for killing her, depending on what she knew and what she was willing to reveal. That Vend and Haskell were embroiled in a conflict over large amounts of money and-I only guessed-Gracie’s affections.

But if Gracie was truly out of their business, as Trixie seemed to have been saying, why would Haskell and Vend have cared about her anymore? She must have wanted something. Money? Her house? A job at the new rink? Her dignity? Could they have somehow given that back to her?

“Not sure,” I said.

“Well, Doc Joe appears to disagree.”

“Doc Slow reported already?”

“Surprise, surprise, the county commission sent a letter yesterday to the good doctor asking for input on his budget.”

“And so he produced his report in record time. What’d he say about Gracie?”

“The proximate cause of death was strangulation, the result of a broken neck,” Dingus said. “Strongly suggesting suicide. Of course ol’ Doc didn’t come down too hard on any one side, trying to keep all parties happy. But he cited no specific evidence of homicide, no real signs of struggle, no marks other than the striations on her neck.”

“Come on. She walked out there in a snowstorm, shinnied up a tree, and hung herself?”

“I’m sure you’ll be shocked to hear that the good doctor did not address those issues directly.”

“Can I get a copy of his report?”

“I doubt it. I myself have yet to see it. The county attorney said it would be made available in due time.”

“After Haskell gets his way with the town council.”

“Maybe so.”

“So we can get that fabulous new rink.”

“That is paramount.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“I was thinking the same.”

We stood without speaking for a minute. I heard slap shots echoing off the dasher boards inside the old rink.

“You know,” I said, “Gracie had an abortion.”

Dingus knit his hands behind his back. “Go on.”

“Not sure when. Probably in the last few years.”

“Aha. That’s why she killed herself.”

“It’s a story.”

“Yes. Well. I’ll be candid, Gus, I suspect you know quite a bit more than you’re letting on. And I can appreciate that you’ve probably had a tough day, traveling back and forth and all. So I’ll let it go for the moment.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m in more of a sharing mood than you, so I’ll let you know: while you were gone, Channel Eight’s reporter stopped by my office. She seemed very interested.”

“Playing hardball, huh, Dingus?”

“Aw, that’s nothing. Go play your game. Then sleep on it. If I don’t hear from you by tomorrow, say, five or so, I’ll be calling Sheriff Brice.”

“Who?”

“Wayne County sheriff Sam Brice. He might be interested in running some tests on your truck, see if you’ve been hauling large amounts of gasoline.”

“Come on.”

As Dingus turned for his cruiser, he called over his shoulder, “Go out there and smoke ’em tonight.”

“What the fuck, Trap?”

It was Soupy. He was dressed and ready to go, his skates tied, his two sticks freshly taped, his red Chowder Head jersey pulled on, his old taped-together helmet resting next to him where he sat on the bench against the wall, the last man remaining in dressing room 3.

One of Soupy’s countless superstitions prevented him from going out onto the ice until I had sat down next to him. I’d thought he might let that one die when I stopped playing goaltender, but he did not.

“Sorry,” I said. I sat and unzipped my bag.

“Where the fuck were you?”

“Had to make a quick trip downstate.”

“Uh-huh. You heard the news?”

I was pulling gear out of the bag-shin guards, elbow pads, cup, gloves, helmet, pants. All of it stunk of mildew and sweat.

“You mean the coroner?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Heard. Sorry, man.”

“Sorry for what? It wasn’t my fault.”

“I know. I mean-”

“You think she offed herself because of me?”

“No, I do not think that.”

Soupy plopped his helmet on his head and braced his elbows on his knees. I stripped off my shirt and pants and started pulling on my long cottons, still damp from Sunday night. Soupy remained silent, staring at the floor. I heard a whistle shrilling on the ice. The door to the dressing room swung open and a grizzled guy wearing the black-and-white stripes of a referee ducked his head in.

“Tonight, fellas,” he said.

Soupy didn’t even look up.

“You can start without me,” I said. I elbowed Soupy. “Go on.”

“You got a funnel?” the ref said. He meant a goalie.

Soupy turned to him. “Yeah. Be right out.”

The ref glanced over at me for some reason. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Don’t you dare drop that puck yet, Jack.”

The door shut. Soupy looked down at the floor again.

“What’s wrong, Soup?” I said.