The Morning After Murder

 

My sister Kate, the most sympathetic of human beings, appeared distressed at her husband’s demeanor at breakfast the next morning. Mac’s hairy face, which normally glowed like that of an innocent boy on Christmas at the mere thought of his morning calories, appeared lost in solemn thought.

“By thunder, it is a classic detective story situation come to life,” he muttered as he cut into his cholesterol-laden sausage. “Who was the intended victim? Did the murderer really mean to kill this Rodney Stonecipher person? Or was he or she deceived by that little masquerade last night - meaning that Peter Gerard was supposed to be the one on the morgue slab this morning? This is a conundrum right out of Ellery Queen or Agatha Christie!”

Was it deliberate that he didn’t say “right out of Sherlock Holmes”?

“Detective stories!” I snapped. “Is that all you can think about at a time like this?” I’d gotten home late and hadn’t slept well.

“We are, after all, talking about a human being who was murdered, Mac,” my sister said as she spooned a third helping of oatmeal into my bowl. (Even Kate can’t mess up oatmeal, and it’s loaded with fiber.)

“Of that I am all too aware,” Mac growled back, not bothering to look up from his plate.

Kathleen Cody McCabe stands five-eleven and has long copper hair, neatly gathered atop her head that morning with only a few wild strands, and large green eyes. In other words, we look alike, except that she is prettier. She was wearing a yellow and burnt orange dress, autumn colors, tied at the waist.

Kate is an illustrator, mostly of children’s books, but her artistic talent doesn’t extend much to the culinary. Mac eats a lot, but that doesn’t mean he eats well. Maybe that’s why I don’t eat with the McCabes on weekdays as a regular thing, even thought I live right next door in the carriage house of their hundred-and-fifty-year-old home. Or maybe I just like to be by myself most times.

But this was not one of those times. I wanted to be with people, live people. There’s nobody more alive than the McCabe children - Rebecca who is twelve and admits she likes boys; Amanda, who is ten and pretends to hate boys; and Brian, who is seven and all boy. Mac sometimes calls them his Half Moon Street Irregulars. So I invited myself in for a noisy breakfast before they were off to school at Our Lady of Knock. Now that they were gone, after having gulped down their food, the conversation had turned to the grim subject that dominated the front of The Erin Observer & News-Ledger (both web and wood pulp versions) and even rated about forty seconds on “The Today Show.”

“I keep thinking of the poor victim’s family and friends,” Kate said.

“Not to mention the victim himself,” I added. “You saw what he looked like, Mac, that pulpy mass of tissue and blood and hair.” The horrible image stuck in my head had kept me awake most of the night.

Sebastian McCabe spread out his hands like a papal blessing. This was the conciliatory McCabe. “I assure you both that I am not insensitive to the death of this man, ending all his hopes and dreams. Indeed, I am guiltily aware that I bear a certain responsibility. Life is tragic, and death is the final tragedy. Every Irishman knows that, although we also have our ultimate hopes for eternity. Until eternity arrives for me, I see no alternative but to play the hand I am dealt. Right now the cards are rather surprising.”

This was just too much for me. “This may all be a game to you, Mac,” I said with some heat. “Lord knows everything else is. But I bet whoever killed Rodney Stonecipher didn’t ask him first whether he wanted to play. Who was Rodney Stonecipher, anyway? Why the masquerade? How the hell did he manage to fool you, somebody who’s known Peter Gerard for years? How did he even know Gerard was supposed to be here? And what happened to the real Gerard?”

“I’m impressed, Jefferson! You ask excellent questions.”

“How about some excellent answers?”

“As to how the murder victim might fool me, that is by no means the near-miracle you seem to imagine. I have to remind you that I have not had an extended conversation in person with Peter for perhaps fifteen years. We have e-mailed regularly and talked by telephone, but our actual meetings - primarily at the annual Bouchercon mystery convention - have been brief.

“As to your other questions - ” He shrugged. “Why ask me?”

I sighed, shoving aside the half-full bowl of oatmeal. “Desperation, I guess. You usually seem to have answers for everything, whether right or not. And you’d better think up some damned good ones for our friend Ralph. I don’t think just taking your department away from you is going to satisfy him after this episode. Burning at the stake may not be feasible, but I bet he tries to blackball you at every Catholic college and university in the country.”

“I could always go to another country. I have done so before. However, your colorful description of my predicament is unduly pessimistic, I assure you. Ralph will change his malevolent tune once I solve the murder.”

My sister dropped her jaw and a buttered biscuit. “No. You can’t mean it, Sebastian.” Calling him by his first name was a sure sign that she was deadly serious. “Please tell me you’re not going to get involved.”

“I already am involved!”

Kate ignored that. “Solving murders is fine for amateur detectives in books, but not for overweight college professors who write the books.”

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Mac huffed. “Well, somebody has to solve this one, and it surely is not going to be Oscar Hummel.”

“Why not?” I demanded. “The man’s been a police officer for almost twenty-five years.”

Mac nodded. “Indeed. Doubtless he was a fine desk sergeant in Dayton, but he has no imagination. He is not the man for the job.”

“What makes you think you are?” Kate asked.

“The question almost answers itself,” her husband retorted. “Modesty prohibits me from pointing out who solved the last murder in Erin, but you will recall that it was a certain overweight professor that writes books - not our beloved police chief.”

“Yes, Sebastian, and I also recall that there was almost another murder right in our living room!”

“Almost does not count. There was never any real danger.”

Putting the earlier murder back on my radar screen wasn’t improving my day any. The case hadn’t gone to trial yet, but when it did Court TV was going to be camping out in Erin and all three of us, plus Lynda, were going to be on the witness stand. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

We kept arguing for a while, with Kate and me holding up the “leave it to Oscar” side of the table. But my heart wasn’t really in it. Reference to the mess last spring had reminded me that for a brief time Oscar was mentally measuring me for a jailhouse jumpsuit. That did not inspire confidence that I was arguing on the right side.

After breakfast, Mac and I left Kate at the back door with both of us promising not to do anything foolish. Mac even kept a straight face.

“Care for a ride?” Mac asked as we walked toward the garage below my apartment.

“I’ll pedal, thanks.”

He knows I always do, weather permitting. The offer of a lift was his way of showing contempt for a mode of transportation that looks suspiciously healthful - and is. Riding my bike the ten minutes from the McCabe house to work really gets the juices flowing for the day. And as the wheels turned over that morning, so did my thoughts:

Solving murders was no business for amateurs. I’d argued that to Mac a thousand times when there was nothing more serious at stake than the plausibility of gentlemen sleuths compared to private eyes in fiction. The consequences of my own efforts in that direction last spring - consequences that included Lynda getting a painful conk on the head - only confirmed my long-held belief. But was solving murders any business for Oscar Hummel, who ate, smoked, and possibly drank too much? Not without help. And the fact that Mac had had some success didn’t convince me that he was the one to provide it.

That was how I convinced myself to take a run at figuring this out myself. There was little downside and a big upside - good publicity for St. Benignus (“COLLEGE PR DIRECTOR SOLVES MURDER”) and for me, a mystery writer in search of a publisher.

But where could I start? I didn’t have access to the physical evidence Oscar’s men had gathered - the fingerprints, the photographs, the crumbs of potential evidence picked up by the powerful police vacuum cleaner. I didn’t even know anything about the victim. There was only one way to remedy all of that: I had to go see Oscar.

First, though, I had to put in at least a token appearance at work.

I was barely within view of what passes for Popcorn’s office - two-thirds the size of mine and twice as stuffed - when she bounced up like a jumping jack in a green knit dress. “Thank God you’re here!”

“Good morning.”

“Not so far.” She held up a handful of those ubiquitous yellow phone message slips that say “WHILE YOU WERE OUT” at the top. My voicemail directs callers to Popcorn and to my cell phone, and this morning I had kept my cell phone off through breakfast in the vain hope of a fueling up in peace and quiet for a horrendous day. I’d already talked to Morrie Kindle, the Associated Press stringer, when he woke up me up at five-thirty.

“Ben Silverstein from The Observer called,” Popcorn informed me. “He’s working on tomorrow’s story.” Of course. There’s no such thing as a one-day wonder anymore. “The Cincinnati Enquirer and The Dayton Daily News each called twice. The New York Times, USA Today, Fox News, Access Hollywood, Inside Edition, Variety, and TMZ also called. They’re climbing all over the Peter Gerard angle.”

“What, no CNN?” Oscar would be disappointed.

She shook her dyed blond hair. “Not yet. But WIJC and The Spectator did.” Those were our campus radio station, college-owned but not student-run, and our campus newspaper. “Sylvester Link from The Spectator said if you didn’t call him back within the hour he’d come over here and camp out all day inside my office.”

“He’ll do it, too. Good reporter, Sylvester. Well, what did you tell everybody?”

“I told them you’d call back.”

“Perfect. You have everything under control. I’m leaving.”

“But you just got here!”

“I’m sorry, Popcorn.” I meant it, too. “I hate to dump everything on you, but I have to cut out for a few hours. No longer than that, I promise. If one of the bosses calls, tell him I stepped out and he can call me on my cell.” I whipped out my iPhone and turned it on. “I’m going to see Oscar. I’ll tell him you said hi.” She likes Oscar, who likes her back but has yet to make his move. I suspect he may not know how.

“I was halfway into the hallway by then, but Popcorn called after me anyway. “Jeff!”

I turned. “Yeah?”

“Was it . . . very horrible?”

Words seemed so inadequate. “Very,” I said.