I can’t stay in this place any longer.”
I dropped her at her house. Someone had plowed her driveway. I thought maybe I ought to stay awhile, but she told me she wanted to be alone. After all she’d gotten through for so long, I figured she’d get through this, too.
The last story for the final print edition of the Pilot went from my computer screen to the printing plant five minutes before deadline.
“Good-bye,” I said.
I supposed somebody in Traverse City would plant a “Note to Readers” on the front page telling them Media North was ceasing publication of the Pilot. The note would thank subscribers for their loyalty and vow that coverage of their “region,” never mind their county or their town, would continue unabated, because nobody was more devoted to the news than Media North.
There were no speeches or tributes or weeping staffers standing around with undone ties and dangling press passes. There was just me and the reek of toner and the buzzing of the lamps.
The single story I wrote concerned Judge Gallagher binding both Breck and Whistler over for trial. Of course, I couldn’t report what happened in the judge’s chambers. But I did plan to tell Darlene what Mom told me about her long-ago meeting with Reilly.
After sending the story, I dialed into the Pilot voice mail system, in case there was a message I wanted or, more likely, one I didn’t want my bosses to hear. There were fifty-six messages in all. One by one I deleted them after listening to a few seconds of each, until I came to message twenty-two.
“Anyone checking on those whackaroonies at the Christian camp?” the muffled male voice said. “They’re all agitated with the county. Maybe they’re just messing with us, and now they made a big damn mistake.”
Something about it bothered me. I played it again. The voice was muffled enough that it seemed to be intentional. In the background, I heard a clicking sound. I figured out how to turn up the volume and played it again. And then once more.
I knew that clicking: Whistler’s ring on his steering wheel. And then I thought, Holy shit, I’ll bet it was him, not D’Alessio, who tipped the cops that Tatch didn’t show up for that hockey game. Whistler had heard me talk about it at the hospital that night. D’Alessio probably hadn’t given it another thought.
I saved message twenty-two and made a mental note to tell Darlene about that, too.
Once I’d deleted the other messages, I packed up my Tigers beer stein, a few pens, a legal pad, a stapler, a box of paper clips, and a package of printer paper. I went up front and gathered up Mrs. B’s photographs.
I snapped the lights off at twenty-six minutes past five. I was almost out the door when I remembered my keyboard. I’d written hundreds of stories on it and liked the feel of the keys. I went back and unplugged it and tucked it under my arm.
Seven hours later, I had to bring it back, because I had one more story to write. It was too late for the paper but I posted it online before I headed over to the celebration at Enright’s.
UPSET! RATS SINK PIPEFITTERS, GO TO MICHIGAN STATE FINAL
By A. J. Carpenter
Pilot Staff Correspondent
In a triple-overtime thriller that ranks with the biggest upsets in Michigan hockey history, the Hungry River Rats of Starvation Lake beat the Pipefitters of Trenton, 2–1, to advance to Saturday’s state championship final.
Goaltender Dougie Baker stopped a play-off record 71 shots in a performance River Rats Coach Dick Popovich called “absolutely stunning.” Highlights included a diving glove save on a breakaway by Pipefitter star Bobby Hofmeister with 18 seconds remaining in the second overtime.
The victory marked the first time the River Rats (23-6-2) had ever beaten the Pipefitters (27-3-1). The teams came into the game ranked #7 and #2 in the state, respectively.
The Rats’ other star was on the ice for less than ten seconds. Team scoring leader Matthew “Tex” Dobrick wasn’t expected to play due to a severe ankle sprain.
But Dobrick showed up in uniform, skated in the team’s pregame warm-up, and appeared at center ice for the opening face-off before retiring to the bench, in obvious pain, for the rest of the game.
“Tough kid,” said Pipefitters Coach Ron Wallman. “We came into the building figuring he was a scratch, and seeing him out there messed with our heads.”
A packed Starvation Lake Arena exploded nearly four minutes into the third overtime when Ethan Banonis banged in a rebound for the win.
“It’s a great moment for a great town,” Popovich said. “But we still have work to do.”
The Rats will play for the state title in their home rink at 5 p.m. Saturday against the top-ranked Austin Painters (28-0-3), who beat Fife Electric, 6–3, in the earlier semifinal.
The Rats have played for the state title only once before. In 1981, they lost to the Pipefitters, 2–1, on a questionable overtime score allowed by goaltender Augustus Carpenter.
THIRTY
The sky was flawless blue outside the barred window behind Luke Whistler’s head.
It was a morning in July. Whistler sat across from me with his manacled hands folded atop the metal table, his white hair trimmed to a crew cut, his pinkie naked of his ring. His black Toronado was parked outside in the impound lot of the Pine County Jail.
“Enjoying your stay, Luke?” I said.
He’d been refusing my requests to speak with him since his trial in May. On this morning, one hour before he was to appear in court for his sentencing, Darlene had rousted him from his jail cell and brought him to the interview room where I was waiting.
“Piss off, junior,” he said. “You’re a minor-leaguer and that’s all you’ll ever be.”
“And your journalism career has ended badly, as predicted,” I said. “What happened to your ring? The cops hock it?”
At trial it had come out that Bitsy Whistler, before departing Starvation Lake for the last time, had swiped a ciborium from the sacristy at St. Valentine’s. After she died, Whistler had it melted down and made into the ring.
“These cops are fuckups,” Whistler said. “You watch-I’m getting off on appeal. I didn’t kill anyone. Yeah, I panicked, but I didn’t hit anybody hard enough to kill them. She had a heart attack. I couldn’t help that.”
The jury had convicted Whistler of manslaughter. Dingus had wanted a charge of second-degree murder, but Eileen Martin didn’t think she could make it stick. Except for a fingerprint Whistler could have left the night he had dinner at Mom’s, there was no physical evidence that he’d actually been in the house. Whistler had learned well from the burglar he’d followed on that aborted Free Press story.
With a little help from me, Darlene dug up evidence suggesting Whistler had motive. There were canceled checks written to Whistler’s mother by Nilus until just before his death, and then by various people at Eagan, MacDonald amp; Browne until Bitsy died.
“That’s not what the jury said, is it, Luke?” I said. “If it was a heart attack, why’d you go to such lengths to point the finger elsewhere-the message on the voice mail, making me think I was discovering stuff about Nilus when you knew about it all along? Huh? Why didn’t you just come clean?”
“I had a story to get.”
“That reminds me. I know how you knew about your mother killing the nun-”
“Nilus killed the nun.”
“Right. I know how you knew she was buried under the church, but how did you know about Nilus moving her?”
Whistler shrugged. “He made a few visits to see my mother downstate. You can read all about it in my book.”
The Detroit Times, under the byline of M. Joan McCarthy, had reported that at least two New York publishers had expressed interest in a Lucas B. Whistler memoir. It infuriated me, but what could I do? People wanted to read that sort of stuff, so other people published it. It wasn’t all that different from how I’d made my living.
