Stone Cold Dead James Ziskin (pdf e book reader .TXT) 📖

“I don’t need babysitting, Frank.”

“Come on, don’t be a hero. Stan will sleep on the landing outside your door. He wants to.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it.”

I wrote a long piece for a special Thursday morning edition, outlining the arrest of, and the evidence against, Louis Brossard. I wrote a second article on the Geraldine Duffy disappearance. Earlier in the week, on Monday, my Girl Friday, Norma, had requested everything the Hudson Star-Register had on the St. Winifred girl’s disappearance, and Wednesday afternoon a box of clippings arrived at the office to my attention. I summarized the details of the case, tying it up with a neat bow and Brossard’s confession. According to Frank, Brossard had indeed sent the boy away first. An hour later, Geraldine Duffy was dead, raped and strangled, buried near the railroad tracks along the Hudson River. Again, the blame went to Satan, who used Brossard as the instrument of his evil. When I reached the Columbia County DA by telephone, he promised a first-degree murder charge. And if Satan didn’t appear to stand trial, Brossard would have to take the rap himself.

I dropped my stories off at the office, along with film of Brossard’s car and the gum under the seat. Charlie worked up the front page and selected the photos, then sent them off to Composition, who were working late for the special edition. I was drained. The long hours, lack of sleep, and emotional beatings I’d endured over the past three weeks had taken their toll. I could barely summon the energy to switch some new keys on George Walsh’s typewriter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FRIDAY, JANUARY 20, 1961

We sat in the City Room Friday morning, watching the Kennedy inauguration on the television, as the torch was passed to a new generation of Americans, to echo the words of the new president. I felt inspired and full of hope as Kennedy stood there in his morning coat, hatless in the frigid cold, and told the nation that “we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.” He moved me when he called upon our fellow citizens of the world to work together for the freedom of man, and I truly believed we were on the cusp of a new era. A better era.

Then I went home, put on a black wool dress and gloves, and drove to the Wilson Funeral Home in the Town of Glen. I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome from the Metzgers, but that couldn’t be helped. I intended to pay my respects to Darleen Hicks.

The funeral parlor was a large, white clapboard colonial house that sat on the shoulder of Route 161. Its paint was cracked and peeling as if it had been baked and frozen again and again for decades. Which it had. There was a small gravel parking area behind the house with a handful of cars and trucks. I noticed Dick Metzger’s green Ford pickup parked near the back of the lot. I climbed out of my warm car and slipped inside the vestibule of the funeral home. A heavy velvet curtain hung half open, and I could see the simple casket and several mourners inside. It was cold, so I kept my coat on and entered.

Dick Metzger saw me, and I fancy his nostrils flared. I took a seat in one of the folding chairs and bowed my head. I recognized Winnie Terwilliger, the lady I’d met at the Metzger farm after Darleen’s body had been found. The Sloans were also there, and a few other locals, too. Susan, Carol, and Linda sat together, and I noticed Ted Jurczyk right behind them, accompanied by Coach Mahoney. Clarence Endicott, principal of the junior high school, had come. Probably the last place he wanted to be, but realistically he had no other choice. Mrs. Nolan, Darleen’s former English teacher, sat alone off to the side, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief.

Joey Figlio was nowhere to be seen. I figured he was probably locked up at Fulton, but I also thought he was the type to disdain formal ceremonies like this one. He was more likely to grieve on his own. Or try to kill someone who’d hurt Darleen.

No Ted Russell. Perhaps that was for the best; the tasteful, if cowardly, thing to do.

“Excuse me, miss,” came a whispered voice in my ear after I’d been sitting there for several minutes. I looked up to see a man in his fifties, poorly shaven, with a black overcoat and tie.

“Yes?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, miss, but the family would like you to leave.”

“I understand,” I said, rising from my chair. I tried to make eye contact with Irene Metzger, but she was weeping into a handkerchief and not looking my way. I felt certain that she was avoiding me on purpose. And I knew that I would never see her again. My role in Irene Metzger’s life had played out, and I’d unwittingly caused the poor woman even more sorrow than she’d expected. She’d known her daughter was gone, but never imagined that she’d lose the man she loved as well.

Her husband, on the other hand, was staring directly into my eyes with his lizard gaze, black eye and all, courtesy of the sheriff. He had demanded that I be thrown out, but I sensed he was daring me to say something, to approach them, anything, just so he could beat me senseless or choke the life out of me. Out of respect for the dead, I said nothing. But Dick Metzger wasn’t satisfied with my quiet departure. He rose to his feet and hollered for me to get out, using the foulest language I’d ever heard outside a navy freighter. I resisted the temptation to answer back, determined that Darleen’s wake should not become a circus. I turned slowly and walked out trying to maintain my