“And that was it?”
“No, actually, it wasn’t. Dingus wanted to drag the lake as soon as the ice was gone. But Spardell wouldn’t let him. He had to have his cruiser.”
“What cruiser?”
“Spardell liked to have a brand-new patrol boat every few years. He had one locked into the budget that year, and he went down to Detroit for the boat show and picked out the model and the town council was just about to approve the purchase when Dingus says he wants to drag the lake.”
“Wait. Why was the town council buying a boat for the county sheriff?”
“Oh, they were always fighting about that back then. Now nobody’s got any money for a new cruiser. Anyway, the sheriff’s department did all the policing on the lake, so they insisted that the town pay for the boat.”
“And any dredging would have cost Spardell his cruiser.”
“Exactly. So that ended that. No body, no weapon, no motive. No murder charge.”
And no wonder Dingus had shut down the press conference when Joanie suggested he was incompetent. And fell to his knees that night at Walleye Lake. All these years, he’d been forced to live with the memory of a man he’d despised, who wouldn’t really be gone until someone solved his demise. The snowmobile washing up onshore had given him another chance to bury Jack Blackburn properly. But in a way, first he had to exhume him.
“Did Dingus consider quitting?” I said.
“No. What would he do? Dingus loved putting that silly uniform on every day. He also thought Spardell might be out of there soon enough, and he’d be sheriff. Of course old Jerry hung on just about forever.”
“I guess I should talk to him. Where is he now?”
“St. Michael’s.” The cemetery. “Lung cancer.”
“Oh. When did you and Dingus divorce?”
“In 1990. I couldn’t live with Dingus and Jack.”
“You know,” I said, “he keeps a picture of you in his office.”
She tried, without success, not to look surprised. “How is he?” she said.
“OK, I guess. He’s certainly getting out more than usual.”
She laughed. “Is he going to figure it out this time?”
“I’m sure he will before I do.”
We sat there for a minute in silence. Then Barbara said, “I’ve heard people saying Dingus is just stirring the pot. Even though I haven’t talked to him in God knows how long, I know that simply isn’t true.”
“I believe you,” I said, and I did.
She walked me out to my truck. Barbara drew her arms around herself, shivering without a coat. “You seem like a nice man,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know if you knew, but I played for Blackburn.”
“Hockey? Really? I never paid much attention. I’m sorry.” She looked inside Glen’s, then back at me. “Could I just say one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“Dingus is a better man than Jack Blackburn ever was. You can quote me on that.”
I wrote it down when I got in my truck.
Before going back to the Pilot, I went up to my apartment to call my attorney.
“Scott Trenton,” he answered.
“It’s Gus.”
I heard his chair creak. Then he said: “She called you a coward.”
“Excuse me?”
“Julia Hanover. She called you a coward. In front of everyone. ‘How can he just hide like this?’ she said. The Superior guys loved it.”
I looked out the window at the falling snow. “If it weren’t for me,” I said, “she wouldn’t even be in this position.”
“Don’t kid yourself, son. You don’t have a friend on either side of the courtroom anymore.”
“Reporters aren’t supposed to have friends.”
“Thanks for the totally useless information,” Trenton said. “Look. Those people are counting on you to help them get their settlement done now, before the appellate court rules.”
“Are you still going to be my lawyer?”
“With great reluctance. I’m sorry, Gus, but you ignore my calls, you blow off an absolutely crucial meeting, you don’t answer questions. If it wasn’t for that family, I’d be out of here, friend.”
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not. But you will be if you don’t listen this time. I got your message, and I got you one more day. You have until noon tomorrow. Superior will seek a warrant for your arrest at one second after noon if they don’t have a name. They’re not screwing around, Gus.”
“Why do they care, Scott?”
“About the name? I have no idea. Maybe they think the guy leaked other sensitive stuff. Maybe they’re just messing with you. A bigger bunch of frigging pricks I have never met. They don’t even get along with one another.”
“How so?”
“The lawyers and the PR guys obviously aren’t on the same page. The lawyers seem pretty cocky about their chances for winning the appeal. But the PR guys want a settlement so they can have a big press conference and let the Hanovers tell the world what a wonderful frigging company Superior is.”
“Really?”
“Really. But get this-the big press conference could be as far it gets, because the PR guys are betting these class-action lawyers who have filed their own lawsuit out in Philly will come in and challenge the settlement because it isn’t enough.”
“Isn’t enough in attorney fees, you mean.”
“Precisely. It’s all about checks and balances. But mostly it’s about checks.”
“Those flacks must think they’re pretty clever.”
“Oh, yeah. Clever guys. Is it true what I’ve heard that a lot of PR types are former reporters? How does that happen?”
“It happens when a reporter wants to be able to buy a house and isn’t good-looking enough for TV.”
Trenton chuckled. “Not bad,” he said. “I’m due in court. Noon tomorrow, Gus. Any later and you’ll be wearing a baggy orange suit.”
Downstairs I found Tillie leaning against her counter, smoking, riveted by the TV. Over her shoulder I saw Tawny Jane Reese standing in front of the courthouse steps. “…arraignment of Alden ‘Soupy’ Campbell, charged with the murder ten years ago of revered hockey coach Jack Blackburn. Judge Horace Gallagher has rejected Channel Eight’s request to place a camera in the courtroom, but we’ll be bringing you updates throughout the day in this shocking…”
Behind her, a line of people waiting to enter snaked up one side of the stairs and clustered at the courthouse doors, where sheriff’s Deputy Skip Catledge stood guard. County workers in dingy red coveralls spread rock salt on the steps, barely keeping pace with the falling snow. A short man the shape of a beer keg, wearing a fedora and sunglasses, with two cameras slung around his neck, appeared on the top step, puffing on a fat cigar. It was Delbert.
“Did he kick and scream about having to shoot Dingus?” I said.
“You were in the photo file, weren’t you?” she said, ignoring my question. “Didn’t I tell you to stay out of there? You’ll just mess it up.”
“I was just checking on-”
“I’m the only one here who has taken the time to understand the very peculiar way that Delbert keeps those files organized. I would appreciate it if you would do your job and let me do mine.”
“Sorry,” I said. “So what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Do you think Soupy did it?” I really didn’t care what she thought; she’d been behaving strangely, and I was
