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

“That’s a pretty serious accusation,” he said. “You want to be careful about saying things like that.”

“Just ask Frank Olney who discovered the bus ticket in Darleen’s locker. I did.”

“Really?” he said. “Then why didn’t you print the story?”

“The sheriff asked me to wait, and I did.”

Charlie almost blew a gasket. “If Artie Short ever heard that, he’d fire you on the spot. Hell, I should fire you for it right now. The press has to be independent, Ellie. You know that. How could you do such a thing?”

“I know,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me. I feel bad enough already.”

“I’m telling you now if you ever do anything like that again, I will fire you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

Charlie was steamed. He wanted to toss me out of his office, but we had to discuss the stories I’d done over the weekend. He glowered at me as I produced the four stories from my purse. He read them quickly and softened. Then he congratulated me on my excellent work.

“Okay, Charlie,” I said, ready to bring out the big guns. “I’ve got more news, and I need your advice. I know who killed Darleen Hicks.”

He stared dumbly at me.

“I know who killed her,” I repeated.

“Who?”

I took a seat in front of his desk and smoothed my skirt. Charlie waited.

“Louis Brossard,” I announced.

“Brossard,” he mumbled. “I know that name from somewhere. Who is he?”

“Assistant principal of the junior high school.”

Charlie choked. “And you say he killed this girl? Why do you think an upstanding school administrator would murder a teenage girl?”

“At this point, all I have is circumstantial evidence. Not enough to nail him.”

“Like what?”

“He was collared by the New Holland police on the Mill Street Bridge in the middle of the night after Darleen Hicks disappeared. Drunk and weeping.”

“So? What’s the bridge have to do with this?”

“You’re always telling me you like good science stories, Charlie,” I said. “On December twenty-first, the Mohawk River was frozen over completely from Canajoharie past Lock 11 on the West End of New Holland.”

“Yes, I remember. It was a rare sight. What of it?”

“Well, the river was not frozen under the Mill Street Bridge.”

The penny dropped. “So that’s where the body must been thrown into the river,” he said, smiling broadly. “Ellie, that’s brilliant. How did you come up with that?”

“Just trying to retrace the journey the body must have taken.”

Charlie sat down and scribbled some notes into his pad. “I see your point, though,” he said as he wrote. “There’s no proof that this Brossard fellow is guilty, but his presence on the bridge certainly looks bad for him. Does he live anywhere near there?”

I shook my head. “Northampton Court. And his car was traveling south to north over the bridge. What was he doing on the South Side at that hour?”

“Any other circumstantial evidence to support your theory?”

“Just that Brossard was deputy headmaster at St. Winifred’s Academy in Hudson before he came to New Holland.”

“And? What’s the school have to do with this?”

“A girl disappeared from St. Winifred’s at the time Brossard was there. They never found her.”

“Okay,” said Charlie, looking up at me. “I’m with you. I think you’ve got the right guy. Now, how do we prove it?”

“That’s just it, Charlie,” I said. “I don’t know. If there were some physical evidence in his car, maybe that would do it. But it’s been four weeks. Surely he’s had ample opportunity to clean out the trunk of his car.”

“Still, we could ask the city police to take this on. They’ll get a warrant and scour his car and his house while they’re at it.”

“I’d rather go to the sheriff for that,” I said. “The city police think Joey Figlio killed Darleen. Besides, she was from the Town of Florida and was found in Cranesville. This isn’t the city police’s jurisdiction.”

“Good point,” said Charlie. “And it won’t hurt that Frank Olney is a good pal of yours. Okay, so you go to the sheriff. Any other ideas?”

“I’m going to talk to Brossard this morning,” I said. “And I’ve asked Norma Geary to contact St. Winifred’s.”

Charlie whistled. “Great. Okay, you’re on this exclusively. Forget about your other stories. I’ll take care of them. You get on this Brossard guy. Just be careful, Ellie. You never know how he might react.”

“Okay, Chief,” I said and stood to leave.

“What about your film?” he asked.

“In the lab with Bobby. Should be ready by now.”

“Great work, Ellie,” he said, all smiles, as he walked me out the door. “Where can I get ten more like you?”

I thought about reminding him that he’d nearly fired me five minutes earlier, but thought better of it. I would surely need his good will again, and men, like dogs, don’t appreciate having their noses rubbed in their mistakes.

Norma Geary strolled by my desk as I was grabbing my coat and purse. She made a subtle hand gesture for me to follow her. She took me to the break room beyond the steno pool. There were some tables, a coffee pot, and a cigarette machine. The room was empty at ten past ten.

“I telephoned St. Winifred’s as soon as I got your message,” she whispered. “They weren’t too helpful, but they confirmed that Mr. Brossard used to work there. He was the assistant headmaster from August 1954 to June 1957. I also called the junior high and confirmed that he was hired as assistant principal in the summer of ’57.”

“How did you manage to get all that information?”

“I said I was with the New Holland Savings Bank. Routine check for a car loan,” she smiled. “Everyone likes to help a person buy a new car.”

“What about the girl who disappeared from St. Winifred’s?” I asked.

“Well, I couldn’t very well ask the school about that. Not if I was calling from a bank. So I called the Register-Star in Hudson. That’s the local daily. The woman I spoke