happenstance that had led me to Bishop McFee-from the All-American Mega-Hypocrite listed in Rutka's index but missing from his files, to Nathan Zenck, to Bruno Slinger, to Ronnie Linkletter, to Jay Gladu, to Royce McClosky, to Art Murphy, to June Murphy, to the room at Albany Med I'd stood across from nearly every night for a month.
McClurg took notes and gasped quite a bit. He shouldn't have been shocked. It was the oldest story in human history-not that a new bunch of pious phonies didn't keep showing up every generation to imbue the story with a grand new stench.
McClurg said, 'When this comes out, aren't you afraid Ronnie Linkletter will kill himself?'
'I don't think so. I think Channel Eight will release him from his contract and he'll get a job in Gum Stump, Idaho, where he'll boost the ratings of whoever hires him. Ronnie's sweet-looking, he opens his mouth and mind- numbing inanities fall out, and he can tell when it might rain. Ronnie wants to be on television more than he wants to die, and a man like that has a future in American broadcasting.'
'But if you're right about who killed Rutka, Linkletter will have to testify at the trial. He was there the night the mirror fell and the white Chrysler showed up.'
'I feel bad for Ronnie,' I said. 'But he knew the character of the man he lay down with, and he's paying the price. Causes have effects. Acts have consequences. If Linkletter had come out and come to terms with his homosexuality and grown up, none of this would have happened to him.'
McClurg shuddered theatrically. 'Jesus, Strachey, you sound just like John Rutka-really quite pompous. I'm not gay, but I'll bet it's not as easy as that. Straight people hardly ever change their personalities and just start being sensible all the time and unaffected by the past. Are gay people superhuman that they should do any better?'
There was a logic to what McClurg said, which I immediately recognized because it was in many ways my own. But there was more to it, too.
'Up to a point,' I said, 'I agree with you. But when somebody's fear and self-loathing and self-delusion can actually get somebody killed, then we have to say: He should have done better. None of the people in the McFee- Linkletter-Slinger axis behaved as well as he should have-had to have done-and John Rutka lost his life as a result. And my guess is, during his adolescence Rutka lost something else to the demented Mortimer McFee, and that's what set all this violent craziness in motion.'
'We'll never know for sure.'
'No,' I said, 'but with Rutka dead and the bishop as good as dead, it's all academic now. Except, of course, for the killer of John Rutka.'
At a quarter of seven we drove into the stone-walled grounds of the beaux-arts mansion that housed the diocese administration offices and the living quarters for Bishop McFee and his staff. The beds of purple snapdragons blooming on either side of the main entrance were lovely next to the shiny car under the porte cochere, a big white Chrysler.
No one appeared to greet us as I parked behind the Chrysler, and no one came out to inquire when I removed from my wallet the photocopy Bub Bailey had given me, of the slice of mud flap found outside the Rutka house after the murder. I crouched down, found the mud flap on the Chrysler that had a slice missing-it was the rear left-and held the photocopy up to it. The fit was perfect. I had found the murder car. McClurg took notes and pictures.
Still, no one appeared-we were not expected, after all-so we got back into my car and drove over to Route 9. I phoned Bub Bailey from the diner where McClurg and I had a couple of burgers, and Bailey agreed to meet us outside the eatery at eight. I phoned Timmy, who wasn't home and was probably at Albany Med, I guessed, and left the message that it was nearly all over and I'd see him later at home.
Bailey showed up promptly at eight with a Handbag patrolman and two state police detectives. I gave them a six-minute version of what I had learned and approximately how I had learned it, leaving out the blackmail, Dirty Harry tactics, impersonating an FBI agent, etc. They listened very, very gravely. The two detectives then took Bub Bailey aside and they conversed quietly. They knew they would have to either act or kill both Joel McClurg and me. Bailey must have advised acting-or maybe the state cops were professionals, too-because that's what we did next.
I followed the two police cars to the diocesan mansion. Bailey matched up the murder-scene mud-flap slice, which he had brought along, with the incomplete flap on the Chrysler. Then we followed him up the steps and pushed a button. Something went ding-dong deep inside.
The priest who came to the door looked downcast at the sight of two police cars, but he ushered us inside, where we gathered in a sparsely decorated lobby with highly polished marble floors but little else in the way of furnishings. He identified himself as Father Andrew Morgan and said he was the bishop's secretary and what was the problem?
When Bailey introduced all of us, the two state troopers said wait a minute, no press, so McClurg was sent outside. I could see him peering through an open window and snapping pictures of us during the exchange that came next.
'Father, we're investigating the murder of a man by the name of John Rutka,' Bailey said. 'Maybe you've heard about it.'
'The homosexual activist?' His rosy cheeks got redder.
'That's right. That's the man. Would you tell me, please, who is the owner of that car in the driveway, the white Chrysler?'
'Why, it's the diocese car. It's owned by the diocese.'
'Who drives it normally?'
'The bishop does. He did until his accident. Or I do.'
'Who was driving the car last Wednesday night? The bishop was in the hospital, of course.'
He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. 'Wednesday, Wednesday.'
'Wednesday, two nights ago.'
'I think I may have been out doing some shopping
Wednesday night. Yes, I believe I visited Bishop McFee in the hospital and then I ran some personal errands.'
'Father, I have to tell you that I've got physical evidence connecting your car with the house in Handbag that John Rutka was abducted from Wednesday night and then murdered and his body burned in an arson fire. Could we go somewhere and talk about this? And I'm required to tell you that you may want to have an attorney present if you wish.'
One of the troopers said, 'That might be a good idea, Father.'
This was taking too long. I said, 'Fountain of Eden Motel. On June fourteenth you and another priest drove the Chrysler out to the Fountain of Eden Motel on Central Avenue after you'd taped over the license plates, and you rescued Bishop McFee-who'd been clobbered by a falling ceiling mirror while he was fucking the Channel Eight weatherman-and you brought him into Albany Med and told them he'd slipped on the freshly waxed floor. How did you explain the cuts? Did you say he was carrying a vase of holy water when he tripped, or what?'
Father Morgan took one step backward, then another. Then he just sat right down on the shiny floor as if his legs had turned to water, and he looked up at us and began to hyperventilate.
Later, back at the house, Timmy said, 'Before you tell me anything, I have some news. Two things happened at the hospital tonight.'
'What?' I knew what one was.
'Stu died.' Tears rolled down his face. 'And Mike said to tell you that he didn't need the stuff. I know what that means, but anyway he said he didn't need it. He wanted you to know. Stu just let go, Mike said-died on his own.'
'The poor guy.'
'Yeah.'
'How's Mike?'
'Fine.'
'How's Rhoda?'
'She wasn't there. I don't know.'
'Oh.'
He said, 'Did you hear what else happened?'
'No. Did the bishop die too?'
